


Another Song

by LordofLies



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Depression, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, or at least an honest attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-01-20 07:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12428163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordofLies/pseuds/LordofLies
Summary: For Sammy Lawrence, life had always been a struggle against tragedy.  After every hard-won success, there seemed to be another loss waiting just around the corner.  The death of his father, the Great Depression, the decline of Silly Vision Studios, and the terrible, waking nightmare that followed.  When the ink finally came pouring off his skin, Sammy found himself a shattered, hollow shell of a man.Recovery is never an easy road to walk, but at least Henry is there to help pick up the pieces and put Sammy back together again.





	1. Bend Your Branches Green

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the show, guys. I'm very excited to finally be posting this and I hope you all enjoy it. I'll do my best to update weekly and I anticipate when all is said and done the fic will be around 30k-45k words long. Also, the first eight chapters won't contain mature content, but eventually it will, so head's up!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There was song in his soul that had been there all his life, yearning to be realized. Every score he wrote and every word he sang revealed a different part of it, but it was never whole, and the floodwaters of it pressed at Sammy’s mind and throat and chest until they felt like a dam about to burst. The only option was to let it out, bit by bit, or be consumed._

Samuel Jacob Lawrence was born in the early hours of a cold April morning in 1907.  He was the first and only child of a county clerk and a foreman’s daughter, who lived modestly, but happily.  A precocious child, Sammy showed a strong interest in music from an early age, which his parents did their best to encourage.  Somehow, they managed to provide him with instruments, as well as lessons.  His mother told him often that he’d be up on the stage one day, commanding an orchestra with a flick of his baton.

When Sammy was seven, war broke out in Europe.  He knew about the war, saw the worry in his parents’ faces, heard his classmates whisper about it at school.  It seemed, from the books he read and the history he learned in school, that there was always a war going on somewhere.  He wondered what it must be like to live through that, but found it impossible to imagine.  Europe, and the suffering and fear that came with the threat of violence, were so far away.  Sammy had only ever known his small corner of the world.

When he turned ten, the war had finally reached its long fingers over the sea and into the sanctuary of his home.  Sammy wept when his father said goodbye, promising that he would be back soon.  A year at most—so long as Sammy was good, practiced hard, and took care of his mother.

Sammy practiced, excelled in school, and did whatever he could to comfort his mother, counting the weeks until he would hear from his father again.  He waited, and waited, and waited.

But Sammy never saw his father walk through that door again.

Eventually, the war ended, but the scars it left on the world remained.  On the day of the funeral, although his mother cried the whole time, Sammy’s eyes were dry.  He lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling over his bed.  He thought about the trenches stretching all the way from France to Germany—ugly, muddy gouges in the earth full of metal, poison, and corpses.  When sleep finally overtook him, he dreamed of brown water and bombs that sounded like fireworks.

 

As a widow whose husband died at war, Sammy’s mother was entitled to some money from the government.  It wasn’t enough to support herself and her son forever, so she found work as a secretary for a local bank.  Now thirteen, Sammy was already teaching piano and violin lessons to the children of wealthier families.  He worked harder and harder, as though his very life depended on it.  He socialized less and read more, collecting volumes of poetry when his funds allowed.  Somehow, the right rhythm and arrangement of words could make even the ugliest parts of living beautiful.  It gave Sammy hope that he too could claw some beauty from the ugliness he now saw everywhere.  The world that had once felt safe and marvelous had become cold and hostile.  The grief and anger he felt at the loss of his father, and his growing awareness of scale of inequality that surrounded him, planted seeds of resentment in his young heart.

As Sammy grew, he encountered more and more people who lived lives very different from his own—lives free of financial anxiety, where choices never had to be made between repairing a broken guitar string or eating dinner for a week.

He hid that resentment.  He relied on those people for his own survival, after all.  This reality only fed the monster in his heart.

Ironically, it was through one of them, his mother’s boss and the owner of a local bank, that opportunity presented itself to him.  He performed for a company dinner, a last-minute replacement for the planned entertainment.  The banker was so impressed with his performance that he asked Sammy if he planned on going to school to hone his musical talents.  Sammy had never considered it an option, but the banker knew a famous pianist and professor of music at university further south, near New York City.  He could get Sammy an interview, and if he impressed the man, as well as the entrance committee, he could even get a scholarship.

Sammy worked furiously to prepare for his meeting.  It felt as though nothing in his life has ever been more important this one, impossible chance for a future.  He did his best when he performed for the man, and prayed that it had been enough.  The pianist seemed pleased, and Sammy was confident that his marks in compulsory education would impress the committee.  Somehow, it all worked out in his favor, and the following September, Sammy found himself moving into a student’s room at the age of seventeen.

University was a strange culture shock for Sammy.  He socialized more than he ever had in the past.  Maids came to clean his room and make his bed.  Food was plentiful, if plain.  In four years, he never went hungry.  He made acquaintances—even friends.  He studied English, music, history, civics, and mathematics.  He worked harder than ever before, determined to make something of himself.

He studied until he fell asleep on his books and practiced his instruments until his hands ached.  He could make any instrument obey him, but his favorites were the strings.  The attitude among his professors and his peers was for traditional and classical musical composition and performance, but Sammy had a deep love in his heart for the songs that were not taught in classes or in books.  He followed contemporary trends and favored less traditional instruments.  Despite his professors’ scorn, the banjo remained his favorite, and he plucked and hummed and strummed tunes that felt as old as the land and the rivers and the sky itself.  No amount of opposition could deter Sammy from following where his inspiration led him.

Of course, these choices were not without their consequences.

“Better fit to play in a barn for a herd of country bumpkins than ever direct an orchestra,” Sammy’s music theory professor wrote of him in his third year.  Sammy seethed, tearing the assessment in half. He was a stubborn man, and in the face of adversity, he pushed forward even harder. 

There was song in his soul that had been there all his life, yearning to be realized.  Every score he wrote and every word he sang revealed a different part of it, but it was never whole, and the floodwaters of it pressed at Sammy’s mind and throat and chest until they felt like a dam about to burst.  The only option was to let it out, bit by bit, or be consumed.

After four years, Sammy graduated with good marks and a solid degree, but troubled feelings in his heart.  They told him to conform, or he wouldn’t ever find work.  But what song can be sung in a cage, except one of captivity?

It felt like an ill omen when, not six months after he graduated, the stock market crashed in October of 1929.  Sammy was twenty-one years old, and as the Great Depression rolled over America in waves of dust and hunger and despair, he struggled to keep himself afloat.

Only once did he consider going back to his mother, at the very nadir of his years between school and what would come after.  As he sat in his unheated apartment, scraping cold beans out of a can, he despaired at the prospect of ever being able to make a living as a musician and a composer.  Music was a luxury that even fewer people could afford now than ever before.  There was no work, and without work there was no money, and without money… well, there wasn’t much of anything at all.

Thankfully, his habit of busking on street corners for pennies got him noticed by the proprietor of a speakeasy who needed a fresh performer for his operation.  Illegal or no, work was work, and Sammy took it gladly.  He was paid well enough to survive.  Prohibition had made these men rich, and within a matter of months Sammy’s fears of freezing to death in obscurity had faded.

Still, he knew the work was temporary, and so he kept looking.

It was early in the Spring of 1931 that Joey Drew entered his life, looking for a music director for his new animation enterprise, Sillyvision Studios.  Joey was a talkative man, and his personality, like a gas, had a habit of expanding to fill whatever space he was in.  Sammy found himself drawn in.  From their first meeting alone, Sammy knew that there were many songs inside the man, waiting to be called out.

In the formal interview, he was introduced to the studio’s co-founder and lead animator, Henry Joyce.  While Joey boomed as he spoke of visions and dreams, Henry stood quietly at his side, pressed into the gaps around Joey’s presence.  He was a pragmatic man, Sammy would learn.  Soft-spoken, hardworking, and unassuming.  And yet his work… Sammy knew it was something special.  Henry was a fountain of ideas, realizing them on paper with grace and personality in the same way Sammy aspired to draw music out of the world around him.

He knew that he and Henry were very much alike, and it wasn’t too surprising that in their first year of working together they graduated from coworkers and acquaintances to fast friends.  Henry tolerated Joey’s eccentricities, but he and Sammy shared a low capacity for incompetence and laziness.  They collaborated on designing new episodes, trading storyboards and song demos back and forth, building on each other’s ideas.  It was a rewarding relationship, and Sammy found he relished the high degree of freedom he exercised at the studio, despite Joey’s habit of meddling throughout the process.

Sometimes he wondered how the studio might have turned out if Joey hadn’t been involved.  Ultimately, Sammy did have to admit that Joey was the glue that kept everything together.  Despite his commandeering habits, the man had a way of inspiring people.  It took a lot to get a studio up and running, and Joey had indeed done that.  Although, Henry had done quite a bit as well.

When all was said and done, Sammy had to admit that he liked his job.  It wasn’t quite the glamorous future he had imagined for himself, but it allowed him to compose and to create.  And it paid the bills, of course.  In the end, work was work.  It had its ups and downs, its successes and its failures.

Before long, six years had passed, and Sammy realized he was nearly thirty years old.

In many ways, not much had changed since he had first joined the studio.  The staff was bigger, and so was the studio, but the daily operations remained much the same.  In other ways, however, things had changed a great deal.

In 1934, only three years into his career at the studio, the Hays Code had transformed from oft-ignored suggestions to a brutally enforced creed of propriety.  Thankfully, the early years of the Bendy Show had gathered it a solid following, and the show did lack many of the obscenities condemned by the code, so the MPPDA couldn’t shut them down completely.  Still, it was hard to produce a show starring a demon when now they couldn’t even use the word “hell” without being denied distribution.

Somehow, they made it work, but with the vice of the code around the studio’s throat, they never again exercised the same freedom they had in those first three years.  The show became tamer, and the introduction of Alice Angel gave them a little more room to shift the focus of the show away from hellfire and brimstone.  The code was universally hated, but in some ways, Sammy felt that the restrictions had made them more creative.  If you can’t be open with your ideas, then you must be subtle, and Henry managed to craft subtlety into his episodes commendably.

It wasn’t just the Hays Code that made work at the studio more difficult as the years went by.  Henry and Joey’s relationship had become very strained.  Henry was deeply unhappy with his work and the direction that Joey was taking the studio.  And Joey… well, Sammy didn’t quite know what to think about Joey.

A few years ago, he’d started talking about an idea.  Technology was such a wonderful thing, wasn’t it?  Surely there could be a way to bring technology into the studio, to speed up production, to make the show better than anything else out there.  Sammy didn’t know if such a thing existed, but Joey had pursued that idea with a single-minded obsession, to the exclusion of all else.  He allocated much-needed funds to his grand plans while the deadlines loomed and they scrambled to finish their episodes on time.

Sammy kept himself busy.  His department was expanding to include voice actors for some of the characters.  The charming and talented Susie Campbell was the new face of Alice Angel, and her voice was heavenly.  Alice’s songs seemed to write themselves for Sammy, so inspired was he by Susie’s charm and performance.  She was starting to fill the creative void that once Henry had occupied.  Now Henry had no time to collaborate with Sammy, and their exchanges had become short and transactional.

If Sammy was honest with himself, Henry’s departure had been a long time coming. 

His protracted arguments with Joey behind closed doors had become more and more frequent.  Everyone could see it.  The tension between them was so taut, Sammy could have played it like a violin. 

It didn’t make his resignation any easier to bear.  Looking at Henry’s empty desk, an old drawing of Bendy still tacked to the corner, Sammy felt that life at the studio would never be the same again.  It hurt that Henry hadn’t even said goodbye, but he couldn’t fault him for finally breaking.  They would reconnect again when things cooled down.  Sammy was sure of it.

Only, they never did.  Work became harder and increasingly unbearable.  Joey had become more and more single-minded in his obsession with the Ink Machine.  It seemed that the damned contraption was the straw that had finally broken Henry’s back.  After months of construction, when the machine was finally operational, Sammy was starting to feel like Henry had been the wisest among them. 

Ugly black pipes filled the studio.  The clanged and rattled noisily, pumping ink through the halls.  They leaked often from the pressure, and Sammy found himself flooded out of his office or trapped in his department with depressing regularity.  Joey had a drain installed in the stairwell and put the switch in Sammy’s office.  Now his only sanctuary in the studio was filled with noise and his work was frequently interrupted.  In desperation for a quiet, isolated place to work, he’d created a passcode for the maintenance hall inside the recording studio, where he would escape to when everything became too unbearable.

How had it come to this?  Curled up in the corner of a glorified closet, leaning against the pipes as he tried desperately to compose the score to an episode that he knew was never going to be finished on time.  The studio kept expanding, but they produced less and less every month.  Popularity was sinking, merchandise gathered dust on shelves, and staff morale had never been lower.  Joey wanted to replace Susie with another actress, and Sammy knew that when she was gone there wasn’t going to be anyone left for him to talk to. 

He missed Henry.  He missed the way the studio had been in the early days.  Now he was tired and stressed all the time.  Work brought him no joy anymore, and his hours outside of work were mostly spent catching up on sleep and dreading his return to the studio in the morning.  If only it would just end somehow!  The future felt like a tunnel that kept getting darker.

Sammy never could have predicted how soon it would all finally fall apart, or how terrible the catalyst would be.  Sammy was in his office, gouging little scores into the grain of his desk, when Wally Franks burst in to tell him that Norman Polk, the reclusive projectionist, had fallen down the shaft of the elevator and smashed his skull in.  Sammy slumped back in his chair with horror as Wally broke down in tears.

It wasn’t long before the police arrived, and when they did, Sammy knew that they had reached the end of an era.  Financially, the studio was already going under.  With the death of a staff member, and the ensuing legal scrutiny on top of that, Sillyvision could no longer survive.  The studio shut down, and Sammy found himself suddenly back where he had been all those years ago—jobless, friendless, and disillusioned.

He tried to contact Henry, whom he hadn’t seen in nearly five years, only to discover that he had been drafted into the war.  Sammy ripped the telegram in half when he received it, clutching at the torn paper with rage and grief.  He prayed that, unlike Sammy’s father, Henry would survive it.

Six weeks after Norman’s death, he received a letter from Joey Drew asking him to return to the studio; Joey had something marvelous to show him.  Sammy was still unemployed, and the amount of free time he had was more than he knew what to do with.  He wandered around his apartment aimlessly, or took long walks, or practiced his instruments without much passion.

Despite his better judgement, Sammy decided to follow Joey’s lead one last time.

 

He still had his key, so entering was no issue, and somehow the lights were still on here and there.  It felt strange to walk through the studio now that it was empty—now that a man had died there.  He’d never been particularly fond of Norman, but the man’s death had disturbed Sammy deeply.

He wasn’t sure where Joey was, so Sammy wandered down into the studio, his unease growing with every flight of stairs.  He’d gone all the way down, past the toy factory, when he heard music.  The pipes were leaking again, and with no one to clean the mess up, some halls were flooded with ink.  Sammy’s lip curled in disgust as it covered his shoes and stained the hem of his pants.  He’d forgotten to wear black.

Eventually, Joey intercepted him, nearly giving Sammy a heart attack in the process.  He hadn’t realized how tense he had become in the abandoned studio, despite having nearly lived there for over a decade.

“Sammy!  I’m so glad you got my letter,” Joey exclaimed, motioning for Sammy to follow him as he made his way even deeper into the studio—deeper, even, than Sammy realized the studio went.  Were there secret floors that only Joey knew about?  How much time and money had he sunk into this?  What _was_ this?  Sammy had spent years dealing with the inconveniences of the Ink Machine, and he still wasn’t entirely sure what it even did.

“I’m so glad you asked, Sammy!” Joey replied when Sammy finally voiced his thoughts aloud.  “In fact, that’s exactly what I’ve brought you here see.  After years and years of working towards this… I finally have something to show for it.”

Joey led him into a room with a vaulted ceiling that bore a strange resemblance to the infirmary.  A few wheeled metal tables lay about the room, but one corner was curtained off.  Behind it, Sammy could see flickering light, but then Joey started talking again.

“The problem, you see, was substance.  Pure ink just can’t hold its form, it’s too fluid.  I thought if I could use a frame, so to speak, I might have better results, and sure enough, I was right!  It’s taken weeks to put him together, but at last, I think I finally have something I can call a success.”

“Him?” Sammy asked, not understanding what Joey was talking about at all.

“Come on,” Joey gestured toward him, drawing them towards the curtain.  Sammy stood still as Joey pulled it back, revealing what lay behind.

“My God, Joey, what is that?” Sammy whispered, petrified.

“It’s Norman, Sammy.  I’ve brought him back to life.”

“No… that’s…”  Sammy whispered, the blood draining from his face. 

In the corner of the room, shackled to the wall by its wrists and ankles, was a creature Sammy could only describe as a thing of nightmares.  Its black skin glistened as it thrashed against its restraints.  The tubes and wires running through its flesh spurted black ink, and the projector that served as its head clicked and shuttered.  It made no sound, for it had no mouth, but from the way it thrashed and arched its back like a mad animal, Sammy knew that it must be in agony.

With hardly a whimper, Sammy doubled over and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor.  He retched, wiping tears from his eyes as his trembling legs threatened to give out on him.

Joey patted him on the back soothingly.

“He didn’t quite turn out how I hoped, but then again, I’ve always had high standards for myself.  I’ve restored a dead man back to life!  He’s something more than human now, something stronger.  Not perfect yet, but quite remarkable for a first success!”

“A…first…success?” Sammy forced out, spitting bile from his mouth.

"Oh yes!” Joey exclaimed.  His smile was familiar, and yet terrifying now in a way that it had never been before.  “This is only the beginning, Sammy.  I have a much loftier goal than merely reanimating the dead.”  His eyes glittered with a familiar ambition.  Sammy recognized it now as madness.

“I’m going to bring our creations to life.  Living things made of ink and dreams, can you imagine?  Bendy, Boris, Alice… they’ll all be real!”

“You…”  _You’ve lost your mind_ , Sammy thought, but the words wouldn’t leave his mouth.  He needed to get out of here, before he found out why Joey wanted him here in the first place.

Slowly, he began to back towards the exit, away from Joey and the monster that had once been Norman Polk.

“Ah, hold on there, Sammy,” Joey said, watching the terrified musician from the corner of his eye.  “I did ask you to come here for a reason, and it wasn’t just to see my creation!”

“And what reason is that?” Sammy asked.  His mind was racing, trying to calculate a way out of this.  Maybe if he could stall Joey long enough…

“Well, I had a thought, and I hoped that you might help me see it through.  You see, Norman here is alive, but he’s not much for conversation.  It could be that he doesn’t have a mouth anymore, but unfortunately his head just wasn’t salvageable…  More than that, he doesn’t really seem all that aware of what’s going on.  I don’t think he recognizes us, or much of anything, actually.”

“I can see how that would happen if you’re dead,” Sammy said drily, suddenly noticing the pipe in the corner of the room, peeking out from behind some wooden boards.

“Yes!  My thoughts exactly,” exclaimed Joey, beaming at Sammy like a proud teacher.  “I tried using the machine by itself, but the results were not very promising.  It needs a medium to act upon, you see.  You can’t draw a picture without paper, after all!  I had hoped Norman’s remains would make an appropriate medium, and he’s certainly more… hmmm… solid, I suppose.  But I don’t think Norman really knew our characters, did he?  He was the projectionist, not a creator.  He didn’t have that song of life in his heart.  Not like you do, Sammy.”

Sammy’s heart grew cold.  It was now, or it was never.

He sprang at the corner, grasping for the pipe, but he never made it.  While Joey had been talking, and Sammy had been scheming, a pool of ink had welled up under his feet, tendrils of it wrapping slowly around his ankles.  He came crashing to the ground with a cry, scrambling to free himself while Joey sighed disapprovingly.

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” he tutted, as Sammy fumbled to remove his shoes.  His fingers slipped and tangled in thick ink, unable to get a firm hold.  “I had hoped you’d be more enthusiastic about helping me with this… just think about it!  If you become an idea brought to life, you can’t ever die.  You’ll be immortal, undying, cast in ink!”

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Sammy spat, finally wrenching his feet from his boots and throwing himself across the floor.  If he could just get to the stairs, he knew he could outrun Joey.

“Genius is always misunderstood in its time.  Years from now, people will see things the way I do.  It will all be worth it in the end.  Every setback.  Every sacrifice.  You _have_ to understand, Sammy.  You’re going to be part of something so— _much_ — ** _bigger_**.”

He never made it to the doorway.  Joey pushed him down onto the floor, yanking his hands behind his back and binding them tightly.  He tried to kick and roll away, but Joey was stronger.  Sammy screamed at him, vacillating between pleas and curses as Joey dragged him, thrashing, toward the other doorway—the one he had not looked inside. 

The room to which it led was even bigger, although most of it was taken up by a massive machine.  The second Ink Machine, Sammy realized.  The reason Joey had needed so much ink, and why the pipes snaked through the entire studio. 

A set of stairs led up the side of the machine, and this is where Joey led him, still thrashing and screaming.  A door opened into a circular chamber where an iron loop protruded from the floor, in the center of a black pentagram.  Joey tied him to it, and Sammy realized—as he struggled fruitlessly and looked up into the lightless, gaping mouth of the machine—that he was not going to escape this.

“Joey!  Joey don’t do this!  Please, God, please don’t do this to me!”  Tears poured from his eyes, his narrow chest heaving for breath.  He was so terrified that he thought he might pass out.  Images of Norman, tortured and mutilated into something terrible, flashed before his eyes.  The world was getting fuzzy at the edges.  The room around him seeming to vibrate.

“Shh, don’t cry, Sammy.  It will all be over soon,” Joey called to him from somewhere up above.  Sammy heard the thunk of a switch, and the machine began to rattle and clank to life.  There was an ominous sloshing sound, and a strange howling, like January wind through the streets of New York City.

The ink came pouring down over him, cold and thick.  It filled his mouth and nose, choking him, blinding him.  He tried to duck out from under the torrent, but it was too wide, and around him the ink was rising.  He fought to breathe as it rose above his mouth, but failed.  He could no longer see.  He was drowning, and it felt like there were a thousand hands upon him, dragging him down into some terrible, dark, abyss from which he would never escape.

 _Dear God, don’t let me die here_ , he thought.

And then Sammy Lawrence thought no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated! (And motivating!) And PLEASE shoot me a message on tumblr (theangelofchildren) or something if you want to chat about Batim or Sammy/Henry or anything, really. I need other fans to talk to, lol.


	2. When the Shadows Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sammy could feel the unnaturalness of his own body at all times. He was no longer human, but neither was he the perfect, immortal creature that Joey had envisioned—sprung fully formed from the machine, like Athena from the head of Zeus. Instead, he existed somewhere in-between—half-formed, half-made—a rattling, dripping, jumble of ink and flesh._

He remembers very little from the early days, when he was first reborn into the world—blind, wet, and helpless.

What he does remember comes in blurry impressions, like smears of paint on glass.  He remembers being bound, crying out piteously as his own flesh tried to crawl from his bones.  To be conscious was agony, so he slept, but sleep was no longer what it once was.  Instead of dreams, he floated in darkness, surrounded by weeping, screaming, clamoring voices. 

Eventually, this purgatory became unbearable, and Sammy chose to endure the pain of awareness.

When sight finally returned to him, he was forced to look upon his own body, and found himself repulsed.  Twisted, misshapen, and oozing ink that pooled inside his pants and around his feet.  The ink was part of him now.  It ran through his veins, infecting and attacking his cells like a cancer.  He could feel his own body eating itself alive.

When he finally managed to suppress his constant, overriding feelings of horror and terror, Sammy realized he was not alone.  The creature that had once been Norman Polk crouched across the room from him.  It looked at him with its flickering lens.

“Norman?” Sammy asked, speaking for the first time in… how long, now?

The creature bowed its head, light shining on the ink-stained floor.

“What are we?” Sammy asked, not expecting an answer.  A strange sensation filled him, like an echo, or a reverberation.  It was not something he heard so much as something he felt, but its meaning was clear enough to him.

**_Monsters_ **

Sammy had known it, but now there was no escaping it.  He sagged back against the restraints, inky tears running down his face.  Even if he could somehow escape his bindings, he knew that he could never leave this place. 

He was as much a prisoner of his own body as he was of Joey’s labyrinth.  A mutilated abomination—part human and part something else.  He was a Frankenstein’s monster, a phantom of the opera, a Gwynplaine—torn from the book of Joey’s twisted mind and cursed with a life of pain and isolation.

“I want to die,” Sammy whispered as despair crashed over him.  He couldn’t bear this existence, he couldn’t.  Norman’s light flickered.

**_Joey lives_ **

The reminder flipped a switch inside him.  Sammy cursed through his tears, straining uselessly at his shackles.  A deep, murderous resentment was bubbling up inside him.  Joey.  Joey.  Joey.  That _bastard_.  This was _his_ doing.

“I’ll kill him,” Sammy snarled.  “I’ll kill him.  I’ll kill him.  I’ll kill him.  I’ll rip his fucking eyes out.  I’ll tear out his tongue!  I’ll pull out his intestines, foot by foot!” 

Sammy cursed and shrieked into the dark, struggling until his wrists felt like they would snap.  It didn’t matter.  His words echoed uselessly off the walls, and in the end, he worked himself into exhaustion. 

Eventually, pain and boredom drove him back inside the sanctuary of his own mind.  He snatched at fleeting images of happier days, but his memory felt like a net whose mesh kept getting wider.  Every day, he lost a little bit more of himself.

 

For a long time, it was just Sammy and Norman, down in the darkness.  Living was torture, but in those early days, when Norman still had thoughts to think, Sammy at least had someone to talk to.  He knew from the bond they shared through the wellspring of the Ink Machine—the tortured fluid of life that flowed through their veins—that Joey had pushed Norman down the elevator shaft.

There was rage in Sammy’s heart.  Rage and loathing.  He loathed Joey Drew.  He cursed his name like he was the vilest thing upon crust of the earth.  Joey was an oozing, virulent sore. He was a maggot writhing in decaying flesh.  He was a rich, bloated glutton feasting on the flesh of the poor.  He was the devil himself.

Every day was torture.  Sammy could feel the unnaturalness of his own body at all times.  He was no longer human, but neither was he the perfect, immortal creature that Joey had envisioned—sprung fully formed from the machine, like Athena from the head of Zeus.  Instead, he existed somewhere in-between—half-formed, half-made—a rattling, dripping, jumble of ink and flesh.

Death would be a blessing, but Sammy knew in his heart that an easy escape from this was not possible.  Joey had succeeded more than he realized, for there was no true death after one entered the machine.  To be inside it… it was to scream without voice, drown without lungs, thrash without limbs.  A slurry of souls, all crying out in despair, scrambling over one another, mixing and mingling in the darkness, always one misstep away from being drawn in forever—unable to ever separate themselves from the churning mass, but never truly allotted the release of oblivion.  It was a depth of hell that Sammy shuddered to recall, though he could still hear those voices clamoring around the edges of his mind.

 

He didn’t remember exactly when everything changed.  He didn’t remember ever seeing Joey again after his rebirth.

But he did remember when Bendy came, with his cloven hooves, wide smile, and dripping horns.  He remembered the ink crawling over the walls, the studio thrumming and shuddering, the lights swaying and flickering.  His own ink surged, the shackles rotted and fell to rust, and he was free.  He fell to his hands and knees, begging for salvation, and then walking before him, from the Ink Machine’s chamber, was the demon incarnate.  He turned his smile to Sammy, white and shining—the first one Sammy had seen in so, _so_ long. 

He knew that it was Bendy himself who now walked among them—perfect and flawless, a creature of pure ink and power.

It did not occur to him that Joey might have succeeded in creating a living cartoon—Sammy knew better now.  It had to have been Bendy at the heart of it, calling out to Joey from the ink, commanding to be brought into their world.  Joey had been a vessel, a means to an end, but he had grown blasphemous and proud.  Joey Drew was a traitor and a sinner.  He had murdered and tortured them all into a half-life from which they could find no release.

But Bendy, he would release them.  Sammy knew it.

And then the demon was gone.  The ink slid down the walls, and Sammy was alone again.  The corner where Norman had been shackled was empty, and the projectionist was nowhere to be seen.

Sammy rose to his feet, finally emerging from the room that had been his prison for longer than he cared to know.  He moved throughout the studio, finding it alien and yet familiar, like a dark reflection of a world he’d once known.  He had entered a mirror when the Ink Machine consumed him, and now he looked out on a deformed world, through deformed eyes.

But perfection had crossed his path, and he would pursue it.  He would give Bendy what he needed, he would do anything for him, and perhaps, in return, he could still be saved, one way or another.  Sammy was no fool.  He knew that he was changed forever from what he had once been.  There was no light of salvation waiting for him, or Norman, or Joey Drew.  But Bendy could offer him the embrace of darkness—a true oblivion, free of pain, free of voices, free of knowing.

This, Sammy would do anything for.

 

Bit by bit, he remade the studio in Bendy’s image, making certain that his savior’s eyes could see all.  These images of his lord kept him company, and to hide his own deformity, he adopted one as his own face.  Never had he seen more clearly, never had he been surer of his purpose.  He was Bendy’s servant, and he accepted the role gladly.  It gave him a purpose.  It gave him hope that one day, all this would end.  Bendy was a merciful god, and Sammy would be his prophet.

The studio was like a living thing, and Sammy carved out his own territory from the other monsters, the ones that rejected his lord.  Sammy could not abide heathens in his lord’s domain.  The projectionist haunted the lower halls around the elevator, wading in the inky darkness and wandering his maze of light.  Sammy had tried to approach him once, not long after Bendy had freed them, but there was nothing left inside his projector of a head now. 

The angel commanded the upper floors and the toy factory, hunting rogue Borises for her own purposes.  She opposed his lord, and so she was Sammy’s enemy, but he would not initiate conflict with her unless his lord commanded it.

The music department was the heart of Sammy’s domain, as it had once been, long ago.  It was soothing to him to once again have a familiar place to call his own, and he covered the walls with images of Bendy.  What brought him the most happiness of all though, besides having a degree of freedom and a purpose to strive for again, were the instruments.  When he laid his tainted fingers on the keys of the recording room piano for the first time, he wept from joy.

Although memories of his human life faded more and more every day, he could still remember the music.  He played every day.  Old songs from the world above.  Songs he’d written for the show.  New songs to please his lord.  Bendy was a musical creature, Sammy knew.  Composing for him was Sammy’s greatest pleasure, and music kept him sane as he went about his routines day after day, after day.

“Oh, weeping willow tree!” Sammy sang as he waded through the halls of ink.  Searchers scurried out of his path, dragging their deformed bodies back into the darkness as he passed.

“Weep in sympathy.  Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me.” 

With his hand, he smeared another sigil on the wall.  The wood was warm beneath his palms, like a living thing.  The thrum of the ink machine carried up through the studio, and in the walls and the pipes, Sammy could hear Bendy moving.  He shivered with pleasure as he imagined the fateful day when his lord would finally grant his deepest desire.

“When the shadows fall, hear me willow and weep for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a little shorter than the rest I have planned, but it gets us through the rest of the pre-BATIM stuff. Tune in next week for Henry's reappearance!


	3. Listen to My Plea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What do you do when a dream becomes a nightmare?_

Sammy knew that someone had wandered into his domain long before he saw them.  He’d felt the surge of the ink machine as they brought it back to life—the one up above, not the one below.  The one below never stopped, constant as a heartbeat.  He heard their footsteps, running from his lord—down, down, down the stairs.  Into the dark.  Into Sammy’s domain.

The intruder was a human—a man.  How strange.  Sammy had not seen one of those in a very long time.  He watched from the shadows as the man wandered through the music department, playing the recordings, flipping on the projector, and trying desperately to drain the ink from the stairwell so that he could escape.  Sammy was behind him as he made his way for the door, and it only took a swift strike to the head to render him unconscious.  Sammy crouched at the man’s side, strangely curious.  Had the man come to visit him?  He had to admit that it was quite lonely down here, although truly, he was never alone when his lord’s presence was always so close.  Still, Bendy had little time to chat, as Sammy might do with another earthly creature.

Tentatively, Sammy reached out and touched the man’s arm.  His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, exposing his dry skin.  There were grey smears of ink on it, but underneath the flesh was warm and soft.  Sammy’s own fingers left black prints upon it. He trembled, pressing his fingers harder into the man’s arm.  Such a shame that a creature from the world above had wandered down here. 

A lost sheep, alone among wolves.

“Wandering is a terrible sin, you know,” Sammy murmured, moving to brush the man’s mussed hair back behind his ear.  It was mostly dark brown, but turning white at the temples.  “You will be a good gift, little sheep.”

 

Sammy carried the man to the waiting room outside the recording booth, sat him down in a chair, and bound his wrists behind his back.  Ink soaked the rope, but Sammy was confident it would hold long enough.  He drew his sigils on the ground, setting up candles and singing softly to himself.  What an exciting day this was!  Surely, Bendy would be pleased.  Perhaps he would even feel a bit of gratitude.  Oh, Sammy would do anything to make Bendy notice him.

“Hnnn…”  A low groan interrupted Sammy’s thought.  The man was waking up. 

Sammy approached him, still a bit too curious.  Just to be careful, he checked the bindings again and took a step back.

“There we go now, nice and tight,” he said.  “We wouldn’t want our sheep roaming away, now would we?  No, we wouldn’t.”

The man blinked up at him groggily, licking his chapped lips.

“I must admit I am… honored… you came all the way down here to visit me,” Sammy continued.  “It almost makes what I’m about to do seem… cruel.”

The man’s mouth moved, but the sound that came out was so faint that Sammy could not hear it.

“But… the believers must honor their savior.  I must have him notice me.”

“…mmy?” the man rasped.  Sammy paused, cocking his head.

“What was that?”

“…Sammy?”

Sammy froze.  In an instant, he was inches from the man’s face.  The man flinched back, breathing in sharply.

“What did you call me?” he whispered, combing over the man’s face, wracking his brain for something that was just out of reach.

“Sammy Lawrence.  Is that you?”

“How do you know my name?” Sammy asked, gripping the sides of the chair his sheep was bound to.  There was something familiar about the man’s face.  Those green eyes.  The shape of the jaw.  The lined brow.  The answer shimmered just out of reach, like a dream upon waking.

“Sammy, it’s me, _Henry_ ,” the man pleaded.

Like a lock turning in a key, Sammy suddenly knew the face before him.  He stumbled back, fingers dragging against his mask.

“…Henry?  Henry… Joyce…”

“Yes!  Yes, you remember me!”  The man leaned up towards Sammy hopefully.

Sammy stood rooted to the floor, scattered memories filtering through his poisoned mind.  He remembered working with Henry, remembered his drawings.  He remembered the sympathetic smiles Henry would cast his way when Sammy came to complain about Joey.  He remembered drinking coffee in the break room together when they were both too overworked to even speak.  It felt good just to have the company—to know they weren’t alone.

But… he also remembered Henry storming out of the studio and never coming back.  He remembered a letter in the mail… one he tore apart not long before—

“No…” Sammy sighed, letting his trembling arms fall to his sides.  “You’re not Henry.”

“What?” Henry looked bewildered.  “Of course, I am.  You recognized me!”

“No… you can’t be Henry,” Sammy repeated.  “Henry’s dead.”

The man paled.

“What are you talking about?  I’m right in front of you.”

Sammy paced back and forth across the floor.  He felt… rattled.  He didn’t like it.  Surely, this had to be a test of some kind—a trial sent by Bendy to prove his loyalty.  But… his lord had to know that no ghosts from the past would keep Sammy from doing the demon’s bidding.

“It’s been a long time since anyone has come down here,” Sammy said, more to himself than to Henry.  “I’m sure it’s just my mind playing tricks on me.  I shouldn’t feel guilty about this.”  He turned back to Henry, feeling self-assured once more.  “You are a necessary sacrifice, my little sheep.”

“Sammy, whatever you’re planning, don’t do it.” Henry persisted, trying to work his hands out of the ink-slicked ropes.  “Let me go and let’s get out of here.”

“Silence!  Don’t pretend to know me!” Sammy snarled.  “I don’t know how you knew my name, but you’re not Henry.  Henry died at war.  I never saw him again.”

“I didn’t die in the war!  I lived!  I came home!” Henry cried, growing frustrated.  “When I came back, I found out the studio had shut down, that Norman had died, and Joey had disappeared.  I tried to contact you, but you’d gone missing too.  No one knew what happened to you.”  Henry swallowed, quieting his struggle for a moment.

“…have you been down here all this time?” he whispered.

“Your lies will not sway me, little sheep,” Sammy said coldly.  “They will not save you.  The time of sacrifice is at hand.  And then, I will finally be free from this prison.  This… inky… dark abyss I call a _body_.”

There was an ominous, rattling clanging from somewhere up above them.  Sammy looked up.

“Can you hear him?” he exclaimed joyfully.  “Crawling in the pipes.  Crawling!  He will be here soon.  It’s time for him to hear me.”

“Sammy!  Goddammit, Sammy!” Henry called after him, struggling violently as Sammy walked away and towards the recording booth.  He shut the door behind him and made his way to the microphone.

“Sheep, sheep, sheep.  It’s time for sleep,” he chanted, watching out the window as Henry struggled to free himself.  “Rest your head.  It’s time for bed.  In the morning, you may wake.  Or in the morning, you’ll be dead.”  His breath quickened.  He leaned over the microphone, anticipation squirming under his inky skin.  “Hear me, Bendy!  Arise from the darkness!  Arise and claim this tender sheep!”

The door to the hall opened slowly in the room beyond, but a wet slithering sound from somewhere behind him drew Sammy’s attention.  Ink poured from a vent in the corner of the room.  It pooled on the floor of the recording booth and from it, Bendy rose.  He towered over Sammy, grinning that Cheshire grin that had once saved Sammy from the deepest depths of despair.

“M-my lord?”  Sammy asked, taking a step back.

Bendy advanced on him stretching out his right hand, the one with claws.

“No!  My lord!  Stay back!  I am your prophet!” Sammy pleaded fearfully.  He tried to retreat further, but his hips met the edge of the counter and he fell back, trapped.

“I am your—”

He screamed when Bendy brought his claw down, slicing open inky flesh in a way Sammy had not thought possible.  All rules broke before his lord.  He was truly master of this place—master of them all.

Where Bendy’s claws had rent his flesh, Sammy could feel himself dissolving.  This was not purification—this was punishment.  He thought of becoming one with the screaming, swimming mass of souls in the belly of the machine again, and choked with horror.  Surely, Bendy did not intend to return him to that hell?  Had he not done everything possible to please him?  Had he not been Bendy’s loyal servant?  Had he not presented him with this untarnished sacrifice for Bendy to do with as he pleased?  Had he done something wrong?

“No…” Sammy gasped as Bendy sank black claws into his belly.  The demon grasped his throat with its gloved hand and squeezed.

Sammy could feel the darkness closing in around him.  His insides were cold as ice.  He couldn’t breathe.  This was it—the undoing.  Not death, but something much, much worse.  Tears pricked at his eyes as he looked up into those shining teeth.

A loud crack shot in from the side, and Bendy whipped its head towards it, hissing.

“Hey!  Over here, you bastard!” he heard someone shout.  Bendy’s claws slipped out of Sammy’s stomach as the ink demon released its prey and dissolved again, oozing under the door and out into the waiting room.

Sammy’s narrow chest heaved.  He clutched at his perforated abdomen with one hand and turned towards the observation window.  The glass was cracked, and he was just in time to see Bendy limping rapidly out the door.  The chair that had once contained Henry was empty.

Sammy tried to stand, but his legs crumpled underneath him.  He slumped back against the counter, pressing at his dripping abdomen with both hands now.

Had his lord betrayed him?  Had the sheep saved him?  Sammy’s head spun.  He felt sick and hollow.  The wounds that Bendy had left oozed a tainted mix of ink and blood.  These wounds would not heal, he knew.  Bendy’s judgement was final.  But what should he do?  Could he win back his lord’s favor?

“…something wrong… I must have… must have…” Sammy whispered, trembling against the counter.  He pressed himself back into the space underneath it, like a wounded animal.  He had to get back out there.  He had to go after the sheep, had to learn why his lord had been displeased with him.  Maybe then, somehow, he could earn Bendy’s forgiveness…

 

Sammy did not know how long he lost consciousness for, but when he awoke he was still curled up underneath the counter of the recording booth, and the wounds in his abdomen were still oozing.  He had to move, had to get out of here.  Where to?  The infirmary, maybe.  There would be supplies there to patch himself up.  If he could hold up just a little longer, long enough to accomplish what he needed to, then it would be enough…

With great effort, Sammy crawled out from under the booth and hauled himself to his feet.  He limped out of the waiting room and back towards the main hall of the music department.  Nothing interrupted his journey to the infirmary, and when he got there he rifled messily through the drawers until he found a hooked needle and surgical thread.  He did not know how to properly apply stitches to a wound, but he did know how to patch a worn coat or a pair of trousers.  How different could flesh be from fabric?

Sammy bit back a cry of pain as he pulled the thread through his skin.  The ink, which made everything wet and slick, was a blessing and a curse.  It was painful, messy work, but Sammy managed to see it through.  The wounds ached, but at least the oozing had lessened.  Only time would tell if they would repair themselves at all, though Sammy had his doubts.  He didn’t have much time left now.  He had to find the intruder.

He was not sure where to start looking, but he had a feeling that the intruder was being drawn deeper into the studio, and so that is where he would follow.  He made his way to the elevator, but found that it was no longer working.  He cursed the angel, sure that it was her doing, somehow.

He would have to take the long way, despite the physical demand of it.

Sammy wandered for hours down long halls and longer staircases.  He knew the maze of this place as well as any of the creatures who lived there now.  It held no more mysteries for him, save the one at the heart of it all.

Sammy had never returned to that lowest chamber.  He had no desire to see the room that had been his prison for so long, and even he, a devout acolyte of the ink demon, dared not enter its sacred domain. 

Sammy still feared the machine that had changed him forever, as much as he desired the attention of the divinity born from that steel womb.  To think that he and Bendy had come from the same place… it was both comforting and blasphemous.  Bendy was so much more than him… and yet they were fundamentally connected.  They were _all_ connected, but only Sammy could see it clearly.

He had gone down so many flights of stairs that his knees felt weak, and the sutures on his abdomen had begun to drip again.  Sammy leaned against the wooden railing for support, collecting himself.  He was almost at the lair of the projectionist.  He would have to be careful to avoid the creature’s sight if he wanted to continue pursuing the sheep.

Cautiously, he descended the final flights of stairs, wading quietly into ankle-deep ink.  It was strangely quiet down here.  The lights of the projectors flickered, but something felt wrong.  Sammy tensed, searching the chamber for its guardian, only to be drawn to a strange shape rising from the ink.  Light flickered at one end of it.  Curious, Sammy approached.  The shape was moving very slightly, rising and falling, like it was breathing.

Sammy let out a breath.  The flickering was the dying light of the projectionist’s lens.  Sammy waded towards the fallen creature, uncertain and unsettled.  In the light of its projectors, he could see that its body was riddled with holes.  The speaker in its chest had a hole punched through it the size of a coin.  It crackled and spurted ink.

He laid a cautious hand on the creature’s shoulder, and it twitched suddenly, making Sammy jump back in surprise.  But the projectionist only tilted its head, illuminating the wall beside it.  Sammy followed the light and saw the words written messily on the wall in smears of black ink.

“What do you do,” Sammy read aloud, “when a dream becomes a nightmare?”

The projectionist twitched again, this time lifting its head from the ink.  Sammy stood rooted to the spot as he watched the creature drag itself toward the wall.  With shaking hands, it dragged its fingers across the unmarked surface, writing three more words before falling back into the ink.  It did not move again.

“Norman…” Sammy whispered, his heart feeling tight inside his chest as he watched the light of the projector flicker again, and finally fade.  The wall was plunged into darkness, and Sammy stood alone in the shallow, dark sea.  He tightened his fist at his side, feeling a strange rage fill him.  It was a feeling he had not experienced in a very long time.

He turned away from the body of the creature that had once been his coworker, and after that, his only companion in a lonely, living hell.  A hell inflicted upon him by Joey Drew.  Yes.  Joey.  Whatever had happened to him?  Had Bendy exacted his revenge?  Or was Joey still down there, still tormenting them all?  Was he preventing Bendy from freeing them all from this place?  Was the sheep the key?  Did Bendy need the sheep to finally free them?  Had Sammy misjudged the importance of this man, this man from a world that Sammy could barely remember, who claimed to be the friend that Sammy had lost long ago?

Sammy hurried faster down the halls.  He knew where he had to go.  It was time to return to the place where it had all started.  Today would be the day.  Today it would end, one way or another.  The signs had been right there in front of him, all this time, and it had taken until this moment for him to see them.  It was all so clear now!  There was only one mystery left to solve.

“What do you do when a dream becomes a nightmare?” Sammy muttered to himself.  He turned down another flight of stairs, limping along until he arrived at the door he had been looking for—the door he had walked through once, so very long ago, in the last moments of a life he could scarcely remember.  The door was ajar, with trails of ink leading inside it and bloody handprints on the wood.

_What do you do when a dream becomes a nightmare?_

“Wake the dreamer,” Sammy whispered.

He reached for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost at the end of the tunnel, folks. What will be left when the ink all washes out?


	4. Gone My Lovers Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Looking back, it felt like his life had been crumbling apart long before he had ever become this monstrous thing. He realized, only when Henry was gone, that the feelings in his heart had been something a bit different from friendship. But Henry was his friend, and Henry was married. So, Sammy buried his feelings like a dead thing, knowing that those seeds could never take root and bloom into anything but greater heartache._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, this chapter is gonna be the darkest one. This is the nadir. Heed the character death warning, it's not particularly pleasant. But after this... the only way to go is up.

There was one truth, held deep in Sammy’s heart, that had not tarnished with age.  Bright and sharp, no viscous ink could dull its edge.  It was the bite of a page from a book of poetry, splitting open the skin of his finger.  It was a fragment of shrapnel he carried with himself, although he had never seen a battlefield.  His own wars had been different from the ones that took his father and his friend from him.  Sammy had won the war to become a musician, despite what had befallen him afterwards.  He’d clawed his way into financial stability, despite all the trials placed in his path.  He had survived a great many things that he had not been sure he would.

But this war was not one he could win.

He’d dreamt, once, that it was something he could conquer.  In his vibrant college years, and even in the early years of the Depression, New York had a way of making you believe you could have everything you wanted.  Sammy had never imagined that love was something he would ever attain, although at heart he was a romantic.  He had learned early, from the minister in his hometown, that there was something wrong with him. 

It gnawed at him, but he had his music to drown it out.  It was possible he just hadn’t met the right girl yet, or that he was so driven by his work that he simply didn’t have time for “matters of the heart” as they put it.  Sammy had scoffed even then.  What young men and women got up to when their chaperones weren’t around had little to do with the heart, and a bit more to do with something else.

College forced him to confront the realities of his own heart, and what it wanted.  Sammy knew that what he wanted was not to marry a bright young woman and have half a dozen children.  No matter how hard he fought it, he was inevitably drawn to masculine characteristics, and he even developed some romantic affections for several of his classmates.  One of them reciprocated, and Sammy had his first experiences with love kissing a young man from Rhode Island whose voice and figure were as lovely and graceful as the music he drew from his cello.

Sammy could not remember the young man’s name, but he remembered his soft lips, and how black his hair was as Sammy ran his fingers through it.  The man had been two years Sammy’s senior, and after he graduated, Sammy had not seen him again.  He remembered writing letters, but he could not recall their contents, or if the man had ever replied.

There were other men after him, Sammy recalled.  He did not remember their names, either.  None of them had lasted.  In many ways, Sammy had been the saboteur of his own happiness, but the shifting values of society at large were also to blame.

The unique, fearless culture that the great city had fostered, and that Sammy himself was able to experience for a few years at least, was eventually stifled by the anxieties generated by the Depression.  Decadence, deviancy, impropriety... all of these things were blamed for the nation’s suffering. 

Once again, Sammy had been forced to retreat further from the light, anxious of the consequences of associating with those who were more open about themselves than Sammy had ever been.  It became less and less acceptable to be anything but upright, mainstream, and unthreatening.  Sammy did not understand what was so terrible about one man loving another, but it was not his decision to make.

Looking back, it felt like his life had been crumbling apart long before he had ever become this monstrous thing.  He realized, only when Henry was gone, that the feelings in his heart had been something a bit different from friendship.  But Henry was his friend, and Henry was married.  So, Sammy buried his feelings like a dead thing, knowing that those seeds could never take root and bloom into anything but greater heartache.

And then it had all fallen apart, and Joey— _damn that man_ —had succeeded in making Sammy’s life even uglier.  He could see the letter in front of his eyes, telling him that Henry had gone to Europe to fight—gentle Henry, with his wry smile, stern nose, bright eyes, and artist’s hands.  Nimble hands, clever fingers, and a power to make the imaginary come to life.  Henry had been Sammy’s support, his anchor, and often his inspiration.

_Henry’s dead_ , Sammy reminded himself.

That was a truth he could not escape.  Could not unmake.  And yet… why was he recalling all this?  Sammy suddenly became aware of the memories leaking back into his mind.  The trickle had been so small at first, he hadn’t even noticed it.

But recalling the past cannot change the future.  The truth that Sammy could not dislodge from his heart was absolute, and every tragedy that befell him hammered the point in a little deeper.

_You are not meant to be happy._

Sammy swayed on his feet, feeling the walls around him shudder.  There were voices screaming in his mind that were not his own.  He dug his fingers into his skull, realizing that the door in front of him was open.  He had to walk through.  He had to enter the kingdom of the devil, and beg for salvation.

With legs that did not wish to move, Sammy forced himself forward.  Ink dripped, and the lights flickered.  The room that had once been his prison was in ruins—the furniture bent and mangled, the walls gouged as if by some terrible beast.  The howling in his mind was growing louder, until Sammy realized that the sound was not in his mind at all.  Full of fear, he hurried towards the doorway, toward the machine.

Inside the chamber, the walls ran with ink.   Sammy stared up at the machine, calf-deep in a black sea.  Its many pipes and tubes spread out from the body of the machine and into the walls and ceiling.  It thrummed, and they shook and twitched as the ink pumped through them, like the arteries of a massive, beating heart.

Sammy fell to his knees, overcome with terror and awe.  It felt like looking upon God.  This where his lord had come from, this is where _he_ had come from.  It was the beginning, and it was the end.  The ink was them, and they were the ink.  It was all so _clear_.

But there was shouting up on the scaffolding of the machine.  Sammy could see the sheep—the man who claimed to be Henry—grappling with a lever.  He managed to pull it down and then leaned against the metal shell, clutching at his thigh.  His tan trousers were soaked with ink and blood.

Between Henry and Sammy, something was stirring in the ink.  Two crooked horns, followed by a bone-white smile and a thin, spidery frame.  Bendy rose from the ink like a shadow, and began to wade quickly towards his prey. 

Henry saw him, and grew pale.  He turned back to the belly of the machine, which was draining quickly now.  Ink poured out of the machine and into the flooded room, raising the ink level by another inch or two.  Sammy could only watch, mesmerized and uncertain.

Henry disappeared into the emptying well of the machine, and out of Sammy’s sight, but Bendy was almost upon him.  In a moment, he would hear the sheep’s cries as Bendy claimed his prize.  Sammy listened with rapt attention, waiting.

Moments passed, and Bendy did not emerge from the well.  There was only silence, and the low hum of the machine.  Cautiously, Sammy began to move closer.  He climbed up onto the machine, trembling a bit as he felt how warm it was beneath his inky hands.  His terror grew along with his reverence with every step he took closer to its core.  When he reached the platform, he looked down inside.

Bendy was nowhere to be seen, but Henry was standing there, along with someone else.  This person, whoever they were, seemed to be… _part_ of the machine.  Like the projectionist, their body was full of wires and tubes that snaked out and connected to ports along the inside of the well.  They stood in the center of it, swaying vaguely.  Ink dripped off their body as Henry spoke to them.

“Do you see what you’ve done?” Henry asked.  His voice was quiet, but filled with anger.  The man inside the ink machine looked at him, but there was something wrong with his eyes…  _Ah_.  _He doesn’t have any_ , Sammy realized.  Instead of eyes, the man had two empty sockets, dripping ink down his pale cheeks.

“Henry?” the man in the machine asked.  “Henry, is that you?”

“It’s me.”

“I’m so glad,” the man murmured.  “I thought you wouldn’t get my letter… tell me, did you see them?  My wonderful creations?”  Henry clenched his fists tightly.

“I’ve seen a lot of things in here, Joey, but I’d hardly call any of them wonderful.”

_Joey Drew._

Sammy froze, his body tightening up with rage.  Was the man in the machine really Joey?  He leaned down for a closer look, his whole body thrumming.  The man was very nearly unrecognizable.  He was older, his light brown hair now all streaks of black and silver, but there was no mistaking the shape of that face, or the distinctive moustache.  How was he still alive?  Why hadn’t Bendy exacted his revenge upon their tormentor?  Where had his lord _gone_?  Had Sammy been forsaken?

“But you saw Bendy, didn’t you?” Joey insisted, smiling blissfully.  “Isn’t he delightful?  He’s really _real_ , Henry.  I made him real.  Dreams really do come true, don’t they?”  He laughed softly while ink streamed from his sightless eyes, and Henry’s anger turned to pity.

“That thing you made isn’t Bendy.  It’s a twisted, mindless monster using the face of the cartoon we used to draw.  It’s a perversion of everything our work here ever was.”

“No, no, you just can’t see it.  He’s _real_ , Henry.  He’s here.  He’s _alive_ —”

“He’s not, Joey.”  Henry grasped the man’s face firmly in his hands.  “He’s a puppet.  A puppet can’t be brought to life.  This isn’t a fairy tale, it’s the real world.  People die, and—” Henry paused, looking aside. 

“People die,” he repeated again, slowly, “and you _can’t_ bring them back.  No matter how much you want to.  No matter how much you sacrifice.  There are lines you _cannot_ cross.”

“But I _did_ , Henry,” insisted Joey.  “I crossed the line of what should be possible!  I walk with the angels!  I bring _life_!”

“This isn’t _life_ ,” Henry snarled.  “It’s _torture_!  Let the dead stay dead, Joey.  No matter how much you want it, you can’t bring your son back.”

“Stop it!” Joey cried, suddenly grasping Henry’s wrists with his inky hands.  “This is my world!  I remade the rules, I made Bendy!”  His head tipped forward, suddenly, like he was grieving.  “They’re so alike… you know.  Charming, full of mischief, easy to scare…” he trailed off with a dazed, dreamy expression on his face.

“You’re dreaming, Joey,” said Henry.  He bowed his head, the fringe of his hair almost brushing Joey’s forehead.  The muscles of his forearms tensed as Joey swayed gently in front of him, moving to the pulse of the ink machine.

“It’s time to wake up.”

Henry did not so much as tremble when he grasped the cord coming from the back of Joey’s neck, and with a swift jerk, tore it out.

Joey _screamed_.  Sammy clamped his hands over his ears, but he couldn’t drown out the sound.  It was inside him, tearing him apart.  He opened his mouth, and thought he might be screaming too.  He watched as Henry grabbed fistfuls of tubes and ripped them out of Joey.  Ink poured out, and Joey fell to his knees, clutching at his chest.

Henry said nothing as Joey convulsed on the floor of the machine and the ink that was his life drained away.  The ink machine screeched and groaned around them, and then there was the howling again.

It was louder than it had ever been.  It vibrated through Sammy’s skull and burrowed into his bones.  He fell to his hands and knees on the scaffolding, unable to even scream now.  His mask was knocked from his face as he bashed his head against the metal, desperate to make the sound stop.

Even Henry was affected.  He covered his ears, doubling over in pain as Joey finally grew still at his feet, and the flow of ink became a trickle.  The machine heaved, screamed, and drew one final, rattling breath, before the unholy engine slowed and the gears stopped turning.

The noise died, but Sammy could feel his whole body… sliding apart.  He pitched forward, retching ink onto the scaffold over and over and over, until his throat was raw, and he wished that he was dead.  He didn’t know what was happening.  Everything hurt, and when his body was finally finished purging itself, the sickness in his stomach was replaced with a gnawing, ravenous hunger.  He slumped onto the ground, boneless and vacant.

“Help me…” he whispered, fingers twitching weakly as he reached out.  He had never felt worse than this.  His whole body was on fire, and his mind felt like a rusty sieve.  He felt like his body had shattered, and there was no energy left in him to try and collect the pieces.

“I’m here,” someone said from up above him.  Sammy looked up to see Henry crouching at his side.

“Henry?” Sammy asked.  He could see it now, in a way he hadn’t before.  Henry was older—more wrinkles, more lines, a harder jaw, and greying hair—but those eyes were the same.  As green as oak leaves in summer.  Sammy had never seen such vibrancy.  If life itself had a color, it was that shade of green.

“Are you okay?” Henry asked.

“…hurts,” Sammy forced out.  His eyes fluttered, and Henry blurred in front of him.  “…so quiet,” he added.  

For the first time in a very, _very_ long time there were no other voices in his head except his own.

 

The next time Sammy was lucid, he found himself half slung over Henry’s shoulder while the other man dragged him through the halls.  Henry’s side was warm against him, but there was a strange, cold stickiness on his stomach.  He shifted slightly, which caused Henry to stop limping forward, and tried to look down at himself.  There was ink everywhere, but shining through it he could see a dark, vibrant red coating his stomach and soaking into his trousers.

“Am I bleeding?” he asked.  His tongue feeling like a slab of raw meat.

Henry grunted, letting Sammy slide off his shoulder and down against the wall.  Henry gingerly slid down the wall opposite him, and took a moment to lay his right leg out straight in front of him.

“Yeah, you’re bleeding,” Henry panted.  “You have multiple stab wounds in your abdomen and it looks like you tried to stitch them up yourself.”

“I did,” Sammy said absently, looking down at his stomach with a strange detachment.  He poked at it gently and winced, his fingers coming away red.  He looked at the blood on his fingers, knowing that there was something very important here that he was missing.

“What is it?” Henry asked, as Sammy continued to stare at his hand.

“I’m bleeding.”

“ _Of course_ , you’re fucking bleeding,” Henry repeated, exasperated.  “You were _stabbed_.”

“I… it’s not ink…”

Henry froze, blinking owlishly at Sammy as he brought the hand up to his mouth and touched it tentatively to his lips.  The blood tasted thin and coppery, with a hint of salt.  But it tasted like something.  It wasn’t ash in his mouth.  Sammy touched his lips again, realizing that they were strangely soft.  He spread his fingers wider, feeling the curve of his jaw and then the tip of his nose.  He trailed up higher, following the ridge, and then around the hollows of his eye sockets.  He could feel eyelids, and flinched a little as he nearly poked himself in the eye.

“My…face…” he whispered.  “Oh god.”  He had a face.  Not just a shapeless mask of ink—a real face, with all the features that were supposed to be there.  His eyes were dry and tired, but Sammy realized he could see more clearly than he had in a very long time.

“Sammy,” Henry said, interrupting his reverie.  “Whatever Joey did to you… I think killing him… stopping that machine… I think it undid it.  All of it.  This place is still filled with ink, but I haven’t seen a single one of those creatures since we left that room.  It’s been hours.  There’s nothing in here.”

“Joey’s dead…” Sammy repeated.  He stared at his hand, wiggling the fingers.  Five of them.  Five fingers.  He rubbed at the skin of his palm with his thumb.  It was grey, but the harder he rubbed, the whiter the skin underneath became.  The ink was thin, and most of it rubbed away.  It was a stain, and nothing more.  The ink was no longer a part of him.

“I’m… human…” he whispered, not knowing how to feel.  He should feel joy.  He should be sobbing with relief and jubilation, but instead he felt hollowed out, like all the marrow had been sucked out of his bones.  He felt like he was made of paper, and all he really wanted to do was close his eyes and never open them again.

“Sammy, Sammy, wake up,” Henry insisted, shaking Sammy’s shoulder.  “We can’t stay down here.  We need to go to a hospital.”  Henry looked around them.  “I don’t know how to get around here very well.  I need your help, can you stand?”

“Can’t stay?” Sammy repeated.  He could hear Henry’s words, but they weren’t making much sense to him.

“No, we can’t stay.  We need to leave.  Don’t you want to leave?”

“Leave… how?”

Henry sighed, running his hand through his filthy hair.

“Sammy, who are you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.  Tell me who you are.  What’s your name?  What’s your birthday?  Where were you born?  Who are your parents?  Where did you go to school? Who’s the president of the United States?” 

Sammy frowned.

“I’m… Sammy Lawrence,” he started.  “I was born on April… _in_ April… of 19—uh… 1905?  I was born in…  in…  Connecticut… no… Massachusetts?”  Sammy covered his head with his hands.  “My parents… my mother was…  she… she had a red dress… I liked… to make her laugh… and my father… I can’t… I can’t remember…” Sammy whispered, his eyes filling with fear.  Henry reached out a hand and laid it on his knee.

“It’s going to be okay, Sammy.  We’re going to get out of here.  We’ll take you to a doctor.  They’ll help you.”

Sammy shook his head.

“I went to school for music… in… New York…  I don’t remember the name… and the president… the president is…  Roosevelt?”

“Well.  He was,” admitted Henry.  “And If you’ve really been here since I was drafted, I doubt you’ve had a chance to read the paper.  But I think you’re doing a lot better than you were yesterday, when you, er, tried to kill me.”

“Kill you?  Oh… Bendy… My lord… I cannot hear him…  Has he forsaken me?”  Sammy looked at Henry hopelessly.

“He’s gone, Sammy.  You’re free.”

“How can I be?” Sammy groaned.  “I displeased him… he does not forgive.  This silence… it must be his punishment.  I need to… to _atone_ , somehow.  Maybe I should play him a song?  Or… make an offering?”

Hot pain seared suddenly across Sammy’s face.  He blinked in shock at Henry, who was leaning over him, hand raised.

“Sammy, come back.  You _have_ to stay with me.  You _have_ to remember who you are.  You need to show me the way out of here.”

“Okay…” Sammy whispered, blinking back the pain.  He tried to get up, but the pain in his abdomen had been increasing steadily and the muscles of his belly were too weak to help him.  “Ahh…” he groaned, slumping back against the wall.

Henry grunted and got to his feet.  He reached out to help Sammy to his, and the two of them stood there, leaning on each other and breathing heavily.

“Which way?” Henry asked, allowing Sammy to sling an arm over his shoulders.  Sammy pointed wordlessly, and they began the torturous crawl toward freedom.

 

When they reached the projectionist’s hall, Sammy detached himself from Henry and stumbled over towards Norman’s body.  He looked much the same as he had when he died, but the ink had drained from his skin as well, and he looked small and broken with all those tubes and wires coming out of his body.  Sammy was silent, but he laid a hand on Norman’s chest, and hung his head.

“Who was that?” Henry asked softly.

“It was Norman…” Sammy replied.  “He and I… we were the first, I think.  I remember… being in that room together for so long… whispering through the ink…”

“Oh god… I’m so sorry, Sammy.  I think I killed him.  I didn’t realize…” Henry trailed off, swallowing thickly.  Sammy shook his head.

“He was already dead.  Joey killed him, and then he turned him into a monster… like he turned me into one.”

“Why… why are _you_ still alive?” Henry asked.  Sammy rose to his feet, seeming more lucid than he had before.

“I was alive when he put me in the machine.  Maybe that’s why.”

Henry swore under his breath as Sammy shuffled back over to him.  This time, Henry leaned on Sammy, trying to keep his weight off his broken leg while they waded through the ink and to the stairs.  Progress was slow with the elevator broken, but somehow, they managed to crawl up one flight after another, occasionally stopping to catch their breath.

When they reached the ninth floor, Henry insisted he check on something.  They hobbled over to the angel’s lair, and Henry set Sammy gently against the wall.

“I don’t think there’s anything in here anymore that will try to hurt us, but if you see anything, scream as loud as you can, and I’ll get the hell out of there.”  Sammy nodded, too exhausted to argue.

Henry disappeared into the doorway, and Sammy did not have to wait long before he returned, looking noticeably paler.

“What did you find?  Was it the angel?”

“Angel?” Henry asked, incredulous.  “Sammy… it… she was Susie.  You remember her, don’t you?  Susie Campbell?”

“Susie…  her voice was so beautiful… so much talent…” Sammy murmured.  “Was she…?”

“Dead,” Henry said stiffly.  “She was… hell.  It was like… parts of her and parts of someone else… all sewn together…”  Henry covered his mouth.  “She must have been like Norman.  The only thing keeping her together was the ink.  Joey… you _fucking_ bastard.”  Henry’s hands tightened into fists, and then fell limp at his sides.

“Come on, Sammy.  We need to get out of here.”

 

The rest of the journey was slow, but eventually they made it to the ground floor.  Not wanting a repeat of his first hour in the studio, Henry opted to lead Sammy around back and take the exit by the equipment delivery door.  They stood in front of the door for a moment, not quite believing it was real, until Henry turned the knob and it swung open.  It wasn’t even locked, which felt strangely anticlimactic after having literally dragged themselves out of twenty levels of death and decay.

Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the August sky.  The air was thick with humidity, but god, if it wasn’t the sweetest taste Sammy could have ever imagined.  He blinked up at the sun, clinging to Henry’s shirt.  The sky was so blue, and all around them was color.  Was this a dream?  It felt so real... but even if it was a dream, it was a pleasant one.  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to keep dreaming, this one time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that about wraps up the first arc of this story! Going forward, it's gonna be a bit different and I'm very excited to get working on it. School is kicking my ass right now so the next update might be a longer wait than previous ones. As always, comments are HUGELY appreciated, seriously. One comment always means more than a dozen kudos.


	5. The Stream That Runs to the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The guilt of what he’d done weighed on his shoulders, another stone laid on a cairn of justified murders. Henry knew that he was not a good man, because those who are truly incapable of evil don’t survive when confronted with it. There was blood on his hands, and he accepted that. If he could do everything over again, he didn’t know if he would do anything differently. He’d made the best choice he could with the limited power he possessed. It would never be enough, but it was something he had to live with._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I can't say I'm thrilled with how this chapter came out, but it exists. Enjoy!

On an evening in late August of 1965, the Union County Hospital received two very strange patients. 

The ambulance was called from a residential home outside town, where a driver with a broken leg had stopped to use a phone.  He claimed to have come from five miles up the road, near the site of an abandoned animation studio from the 1940s.  The ambulance was dispatched, and within a half hour the two men were wheeled inside.  The caller, who identified himself as Henry Joyce—a war veteran and comic book artist—was whisked into care for a broken leg, shock, and a bad case of ink poisoning.

The other man, who would not respond when questioned by the nurses, was in a much more critical state.  The multiple perforations in his abdomen were the most pressing concern, and he was taken into surgery to clean and repair the open wounds, and drain the internal bleeding.  The man was absolutely saturated in ink and seemed to be suffering from severe malnutrition.

He survived surgery, despite the critical nature of his condition.  After he was appropriately cleaned, he was left to rest in a quiet recovery ward with an IV to keep him hydrated and provide nutrients to his starving body.

Henry Joyce insisted he be allowed to recover near his friend, who he named as Samuel Lawrence.  The doctors couldn’t find any paperwork to verify this, although Henry insisted that was his name, and was even able to provide a hometown and date of birth.  After a bit of digging, the hospital found records of birth and death for one Samuel Jacob Lawrence of Southern Massachusetts, born 1907, died 1944.

“He didn’t die, he disappeared,” Henry insisted when Dr. Hill, the practitioner who was overseeing their care, informed him of what they’d found.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Joyce,” said Dr. Hill from underneath a thick, bristling walrus moustache.  “There’s simply no way this man can be the one you’re telling us he is.  You’ve been through a great deal in the past few days.  You may not be thinking clearly.”

“Dammit, man,” Henry cursed, beginning to raise his voice.  “I know this man!  I worked with him for years.  He didn’t die, he was imprisoned!  Abducted!”  He lowered his voice again, catching himself.  “Listen.  I keep telling you, although I don’t know if you’ve been hearing me, but you need to send police to the site of the old Sillyvision Studios building outside of town.  It shut down decades ago, but the man who ran it until then, Joey Drew, he kept using the building.  He did terrible things in there that need to be brought to light.”

“Your allegations are very serious,” said Dr. Hill, “but the police have been informed and are likely on their way to look at the building as we speak.  The two of you are certainly in a dire, and strange enough, situation that it warrants investigating.  But to propose that this man here…”  He gestured at Sammy.  “—who undoubtedly has suffered greatly for no small amount of time, was trapped in that building for over twenty years?  Frankly, it’s…”

“Impossible, I know,” Henry sighed.  “But it’s the truth.”

Dr. Hill tapped his pen against his clipboard.  His thick-rimmed glasses had slid down to the end of his nose as he looked over them at Henry.

“We might have a better understanding of the situation when the authorities have had time to investigate.  But… if what you are saying is true, then this man here would be nearly sixty years old, the same as yourself.  It’s clear he’s seen better days—he’s hardly more than skin and bone—but he couldn’t possibly be any older than forty.”  With that, the doctor left them alone, instructing Henry to get some rest.

Henry turned to look at Sammy, who was sleeping in the bed beside him.  Now that the ink had been cleaned from his body and his filthy trousers had been replaced with a hospital gown, he looked even more pitiful and fragile.  The doctor had been more than a little generous in his assessment of Sammy—the man looked like a corpse.  Sammy had always sported a willowy figure, but now his arms were so _thin_ , his collarbones bulged out of his skin, and his eyes and cheeks were dark and sunken.  His long hair was gone, leaving a pale scalp, and even his fingernails had fallen off from the severity of his malnutrition.  The first thing the doctor told him was that it was a miracle he was alive at all, when every aspect of his condition indicated that his body should have given out under the strain of it all a long time ago.

How could he tell them that Sammy had been kept alive by black magic and ink?  The chances of them believing his story were slim to none, even when the inevitably unearthed the studio’s horrors.  All that was left were the markings of Joey’s obsessions and the broken bodies he left behind.  Even the machine was silent now.  Hopefully, it would never beat again, and Joey’s legacy would end here.

Exhausted and pumped full of painkillers, Henry let himself drift off to sleep for a little while.  He was awoken a few hours later by Dr. Hill and two police officers.  Dr. Hill looked a bit startled, and the officers had very serious expressions on their faces.

“Mr. Joyce,” the older of the two addressed him, “My name is Officer Blackwood, and I have some questions that I’m hoping you might be able to answer.”

“Go ahead,” Henry replied.  Blackwood nodded, pulling a chair over to Henry’s beside and taking out a pad of paper and a pen.

“We went to the site of the abandoned Sillyvision Studios company, which was officially closed in 1944 due to declining financial stability and the death of a staff member.  We were informed that you, with a broken leg and your friend in the passenger seat, drove your vehicle five miles the road and stopped at the nearest residence to use their phone.  Is this correct?”

“Yes.”

Blackwood scribbled something on his pad.

“You informed the hospital that you had received a letter from an old coworker, the owner of the studio, requesting that you come visit, which you did.  Can you elaborate on this?”  Henry nodded.

“Joey and I parted ways almost thirty years ago.  I quit the studio in 1937 because I couldn’t keep working with him.  Not long after that, I suffered a personal loss, and was then conscripted to fight in the war.  When I returned in 1945, the studio had shut down, and I couldn’t locate any of my former coworkers.  Some of them had moved away, so I was told, and a few had simply vanished.  Joey was one of them, and Sammy—Samuel Lawrence, this man here—was another.”

The officer nodded, scribbling something down again.

“I received the letter months ago.  I didn’t know what to make of it.  I was angry, and so I put it aside.  I figured it was a cruel joke of some kind, sending letters allegedly written by a man who died over twenty years ago.  It was either that, I thought, or somehow Joey was still alive, despite having disappeared two decades ago.  The possibility of it ate away at me, and finally I decided to go and see for myself if there was anything to it.”

Officer Blackwood eyed Henry seriously.

“I’m not going to tell you what we found in there,” he said slowly, “because I want to hear it from you first.  Frankly, in thirty years on the force, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I don’t blame you.  Honestly, the only reason I think I survived was because it wasn’t the first time I’ve been in a situation like that.  Where my life was in peril, and I was alone, I mean,” Henry hurried to clarify.  “You learn to overrule your feelings, and your disbelief, because if you don’t, you’ll die.” 

Henry sighed. 

“I don’t know if I can explain it to you, what happened in there.  I don’t fully understand it myself.  I do know that Joey Drew was responsible for all of it, and that any evidence of murder you find in there—I can tell you the identities of at least two of them—was all Joey’s doing.  I don’t know what he hoped to achieve, and I don’t understand how he thought that mutilating his coworkers was going to bring it to him.”

“The man with the surgical alterations, with the projector instead of a head—”

“That was Norman Polk,” Henry interrupted.  “He was the projectionist of the studio, and a good man.  Sammy told me that he was the first person that Joey experimented on.”

The questions continued in a similar vein for hours, until Henry was mentally and emotionally exhausted and all he wanted to do was go back to sleep.  They asked him over and over about Joey, about his history, about the Ink Machine, about the writings and the occult symbols, and about the peculiar mutilations and dismembered body parts they’d found in the studio.  Almost as much as they wanted to know about Joey, they wanted to know about Sammy.  His claim about the man’s identity seemed less far-fetched now, but they still wanted to verify it to make sure.  Eventually, Henry suggested that they should look at a photo of the man.  There was an album of photographs in his closet at home, some of which included Sammy.

“There should be a photo of a group of us from the holiday party in 1933, and another one of Sammy by himself from December of 1935.  He’s sitting at a piano.”

Henry was allowed to rest for a little while longer, until another officer came back with the photo album.  They flipped to 1935, where they found a picture of a slim man in a tailored suit sitting at a piano inside the family room of an apartment.  His blond hair was tied back in a low ponytail and he was smiling broadly.  Officer Blackwood looked from the man in the photograph, to the man on the hospital bed, and back again several more times.

“Hell’s bells,” he muttered.  “He hasn’t aged a day in thirty years!”

 

It was another two days before Sammy woke up. 

When he did, the Dr. Hill came over to question him, but he didn’t manage to extract anything that Henry had not already told him.  Sammy had moments of lucidity, but he kept lapsing back into muttering about Bendy and the ink.  Sometimes he sang softly to himself.  Henry wondered if he found it soothing. 

The officers returned after hearing that he’d woken up, but their questioning resulted in very little.

“I’m sorry,” officer Blackwood told Henry, removing his hat before exiting the ward.  The offer of condolences made Henry angry more than anything.  Sammy was alive, wasn’t he?  There was always hope then.  Even if no one else believed that Sammy could recover, he believed it.

_And belief is a powerful thing_. 

Joey’s words echoed inside Henry’s head, no matter how he tried to cut them out.  That image of his old friend—blind and raving, more machine than man—would haunt him for the rest of his days.  The guilt of what he’d done weighed on his shoulders, another stone laid on a cairn of justified murders.  Henry knew that he was not a good man, because those who are truly incapable of evil don’t survive when confronted with it.  There was blood on his hands, and he accepted that.  If he could do everything over again, he didn’t know if he would do anything differently.  He’d made the best choice he could with the limited power he possessed.  It would never be enough, but it was something he had to live with.

Henry had emerged alive from the traumas of his life, though not without scars.  Joey was responsible for a number of them, and Henry knew that he would be haunted by that man’s legacy for the rest of his days.  But Sammy… how deep his wounds ran, even Henry could not yet tell.  Every day, as Sammy showed little signs of recovering, Henry’s fears increased a little more.  Sammy Lawrence didn’t deserve such a fate.  He was a good man, from what Henry remembered.  It didn’t seem like it had been thirty years since they parted. 

Sammy was a perfectionist and a virtuoso.  He held himself to impeccably high standards, and he held the people around him to those standards as well, which often caused them to resent him.  He could be anxious, rude, and insensitive—but there was another side of him as well, one that Henry had not had a chance to get to know as much as he would have liked.  This side of Sammy was thoughtful, playful, and passionate.  Sammy liked to travel, and he liked crowded, lively places.  It was inspiring, he’d once told Henry, to see the whole panorama of human existence.  A person could find as much beauty in a man-made metropolis as they could in a natural wonder.  Henry found Sammy’s unique blend of practicality and romanticism to be refreshing.  He liked going to the theater and reading books of poetry, but the plays and the stories he liked best were always the ones most grounded in the everyman’s experience and the contemporary world. 

Poetry, according to Sammy, was like music.  The key to meaning was often in the silence between words.

As Henry lay in the silent hospital ward, he swore an unspoken vow to himself that whatever fate awaited Sammy, Henry would be there for him until the end.  Whether his remaining life was short and tormented, or long and full of possibilities, Henry would not abandon him.  They were the only two survivors of a terrible ordeal that had taken their friends and coworkers, and unnumbered pieces of themselves. 

Although he thought he’d left that part of his life behind thirty years ago, Henry realized now how much a part of him it still was.  One thing he’d learned as he aged was that when it came to memory, there were certain passages of one’s life that faded, and others that did not.  In thirty years, his time at Sillyvision had not faded.  He remembered it all as clearly as if he’d quit only a month ago, and he realized now that the hole Sammy’s absence left in him had never really closed.

“We’ll get through this.  I promise you,” he told his friend.  Sammy looked over at him.  His eyes were dark and bruised.

“Henry?  Where were you?”

“I’ve been right here,” he assured Sammy, who blinked at him with confusion.

“No, no.  Before.  It feels like… I haven’t seen you in so long… did you come to visit me?”

“I was away.  I’m sorry I left, Sammy.  I’m sorry I didn’t come looking for you sooner.”  Sammy huffed.

“You know you’re the only one I can talk to in this madhouse.  Not enough sensible people in this business.”  Henry chuckled.

“Well, you have to be at least a little mad to work in animation.” 

Sammy snorted, closing his eyes and lying back on the bed.  There was silence for a few minutes, and Henry thought that Sammy had fallen asleep, until he spoke again.

“Henry?”

“Yeah?”

“Am I… am I me again?”  Surprised, Henry turned back to look at Sammy, who was holding his thin arm in front of his face and staring at it.

“Yeah, Sammy.  You’re you.”

“I feel like… I’m in pieces.”

“You’ll get better.  I promise,” Henry said.

“It’s like… time has no meaning…  I don’t know what year it is… or where I am… One minute it’s like we’re working together again, and then everything is going to hell, and then… god… the ink… and I feel like I must be doing something to appease him… but I can’t hear those voices in my head anymore, so I know that something has changed.”  Sammy covered his eyes with the back of his arm.  “I can’t even describe to what it was like… it doesn’t feel like it could possibly be over.  It feels like this is all a dream, but then it feels like everything is a dream.  I’m so tired, Henry.  I’m so tired.”

“Get some sleep, Sammy.  You need time to adjust.  When you wake, I’ll be here.”

“You mean that?”

“I do.”

Sammy closed his eyes again, drifting back into what must have been an uneasy sleep.  Henry turned his thoughts back to the future, and what would happen to Sammy.  Henry would be cleared for release very soon.  His injuries had been relatively minor, although the broken leg meant he wouldn’t be driving for a few months.  But what would happen to Sammy?

 

An answer came two days later, when Henry was released from the hospital’s care.  Dr. Hill took him aside to discuss Sammy.

“It’s a dilemma,” the doctor told him, “because cases of premature obituary are so rare to begin with, and on top of that… there’s never been a case of someone remerging into society twenty years after they were declared dead.  Any assets or property he owned would have gone to his next of kin, which according to the police would have been his mother, who is now deceased.  According to the records, Samuel Lawrence never married, had no children, no siblings, and no aunts or uncles.  All his immediate family are dead.  Effectively, he has nothing, and he has no one.  He’s not insured, he can’t pay for his own medical care, and he has no appointed power of attorney to make medical decisions for him while he is incapacitated.  On top of all that, I’m not sure how good an outlook he has for recovery, given the state of his mental faculties these past few days.”

“I’ll pay.”

“Excuse me?” Dr. Hill asked, blinking.

“I’ll pay for his medical expenses.”  Henry glared at the doctor.  “Is that allowed?”

“I—well, yes.  It is.  But the situation is complicated, Mr. Joyce.  I understand that you have a long history with Mr. Lawrence, but the fact of the matter is that, legally, you have no say in what becomes of him.”

Henry took a deep breathe, calming himself.

“Could I get power of attorney?”

“It’s possible, and given the unusual nature of this situation, I’d say your chances are high.  But even if the court did grant it to you, it wouldn’t happen overnight.”

“So, what will happen to him, in the meantime?  Will he stay here?”

“I’m afraid that there’s only so much we can do for him,” Doctor Hill admitted, smoothing down his bushy moustache.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that right now, his body is recovering.  He should remain here for another two weeks, at least, until his health has at least somewhat returned to him.  His body was in such a state of extreme stress and starvation that it’s a miracle he even survived.  We’ve had him on an IV to replenish his bodily fluids and his nutrients, and he should be gradually eased into consuming normal food again, starting with liquids.  After that, we can reassess, but it’s my belief that the damage to his mind runs deeper than the damage to his body.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Henry, feeling uneasy.

“There are other hospitals nearby that have facilities for the care of patients with psychological disorders.  I think it would be best to house him there for a time so that his needs can be evaluated in a more controlled setting.”

“You mean you want to put him in an asylum,” Henry said flatly.

“A psychiatric hospital,” the doctor corrected.

“I can’t say I’ve ever had first-hand experience with one myself, but from what I know of the goings-on in those places, I can’t say I’d feel assured with Sammy spending any time in one.” 

Henry had seen _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_ just last year when it made its debut on Broadway, and the story had impacted him deeply.  He’d had his own share of struggles after Linda’s death, and then after his experiences in the war.  He’d had friends and comrades who suffered dearly afterwards—terribly depressed, or stuck in a loop of reality where at any moment they could suddenly relive the worst moments of their wartime experience.  Some of them had even taken their own lives, and Henry knew of at least two who had spent time in these kinds of institutions.

“It would be a temporary arrangement.  Medium-term care.  Long enough to make an assessment of his mental faculties and give him time to recover in a controlled environment.  It simply has not been long enough to tell how he will emerge from this experience.  I think that this would be best.”

Henry was silent, unsure.

“Mr. Joyce.  I can personally attest to the humane conditions of several nearby psychiatric wards and care facilities.  I want you to be assured that Mr. Lawrence will not be mistreated, but you also must remember that, because of the circumstances, this decision is the hospital’s.”

“And yet I would be footing the bill.”

“The alternative is to release him, which I feel is not the best course of action.”  Dr. Hill shifted from one foot to the other while Henry thought.

“What facility did you have in mind?” Henry asked, finally.  He was still wary about this, but he also wasn’t confident about his own ability to give Sammy what he needed in these early days.  Maybe it would be best if Sammy had some time where nothing could remind him of his experience in the studio, not even Henry.

“I have a colleague at the New York Central Hospital who has been doing good work in the field,” doctor Hill began, going into detail about the care options that would be available to Sammy.  Henry was only half listening, his mind racing to figure out where they would go from there.  He’d visit the district court house as soon as he was out, and give them the case for why he should act on Sammy’s behalf.  In the meantime, he would keep an eye on him as often as possible, while trying to keep his own life together after this startling upset.  He was on sick leave at the moment, but he’d have to go back to work eventually.  Thank goodness it was his leg that broke and not his arm, or he would have been in real trouble.

_We’ll survive this,_ Henry reassured himself. _We’ll survive this, and we’ll live our lives.  Joey doesn’t have any more power over either of us._

He would keep repeating it until he believed it, and then he would make it true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are HUGELY appreciated. Next update will probably be next Sunday, and we're FINALLY going to get some good interactions between Henry and Sammy.


	6. Whisper to the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week before Thanksgiving, Henry arrived at the hospital to find Sammy waiting for him in the foyer, a nurse chatting amiably with him. He said little, but he smiled at her occasionally.
> 
> They'd provided him with some real clothes—tan slacks, a button-down shirt, and a moss-green sweater only a size too large. His hair was still short and thin, but it was coming back the same pale blond that Henry remembered. He looked good, remarkably so. In fact, he looked exactly as Henry remembered him from nearly thirty years ago. If that hadn't been clear while he was lying in that hospital bed, it certainly was now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! The next chapter! At long last! Firstly, I am SO sorry that my sudden hiatus became MUCH longer than anticipated (3 months, wow) and I want to thank all of you for being so patient while I deal with IRL things like grad school and work and physical therapy (and new fandoms, hahaha). I can't say I'm fully happy with this chapter, but sometimes you have to cut your losses and I've made you all wait long enough for it. As you may have noticed, the chapter count has increased again! This is the final number, as I have the rest of the story outlined in full now. It will be 10 chapters and an epilogue. I can't make any promise as to when the next update will be, since I struggled for so long to finish this chapter that I haven't started chapter 7 at all yet. It might be another month, it might be less. Regardless, this story WILL be completed regardless of how long it takes, so don't worry about that. I'll try to get it done as quickly as I can, but things are still pretty busy and I can't make any promises.

The two months following Henry's release from the hospital were two of the most stressful months of his life.  The hospital kept Sammy for two more weeks, as promised, and Henry came to visit every day.  As life returned to Sammy's body, his mind seemed to recover as well.  By the time it was no longer necessary to sustain him with an IV, he seemed consistently aware of his surroundings. 

He was also not thrilled at the prospect of being institutionalized.

"Henry, don't let them lock me up.  I can't go back!" he cried, clutching at Henry's sleeve with his thin, spidery hands.

"You're not going back, Sammy," Henry tried to assure him. Covering Sammy's trembling hand with his own.  "They're just moving you to another hospital to keep an eye on you.  I can see you're recovering, but the doctors want to make sure.  It won't be for long."

"Please, Henry," Sammy begged, his blue eyes wide and pale.  Despite his evident fear, there was a gloss of life in them again that lifted Henry's heart.

"Sammy.  It's not my choice, but I promise you that it will be temporary."

Sammy hung his head, and Henry patted his hand again comfortingly, not sure what else to say.

"I'll visit you.  I'll make sure they treat you right."

Sammy said nothing, just stared at the blanket draped over his thin legs.  Henry couldn't crush the guilt he felt when the doctor from the hospital in New York came to take Sammy away, although he knew he was doing all he could.  He would make this right.  He wouldn't abandon his friend.

The best thing he could do for Sammy was to win power of attorney, a process he'd started on the day of his release.  He'd spoken with the police, and with the district court.  He'd filled out dozens of forms, and waited agonizing days for responses.  He nearly lost hope a week after Sammy's transfer, when the court told him that despite the circumstances of their past acquaintance and his role in saving Sammy from the studio, they couldn't just grant a non-family member with no real documented connection that kind of legal authority.

To make matters worse, on the day after his denial the police showed up at Henry's door asking him to come in again.  They questioned him again, much to his annoyance, until he discovered the reason why.

"After further investigation of the studio and the state of the bodies there, we have cause to believe that Mr. Lawrence is a suspect, despite your claims that he was a victim and not culpable of any crimes."

"What?" Henry cried.  "Have you seen the state he was in?  He's spent the last three weeks bedridden, barely able to remember his own name!  And you think he killed those people?"

"Several of the remains we found were recently deceased, and the man you claimed to be responsible, Joey Drew, was connected to that machine in a way he could not possible have done himself.  He would have needed help, and Mr. Lawrence is the only other survivor.  Why is it that he survived and no one else did?  We want to get to the bottom of this, Mr. Joyce."

"Sammy never hurt anyone.  Joey tortured him, brainwashed him.  He needs help, not… whatever this is."  The officer looked at Henry over the rim of his glasses, his gaze cold and serious.

"Frankly, Mr. Joyce, this isn't a situation we're adequately equipped to deal with.  There's information we're missing, and if there are facts you are withholding, there may be serious consequences for you, and for Mr. Lawrence."

Henry's blood ran cold.  What could he say to make them believe him?  It felt like everything was falling apart.

But serendipity, it seemed, had other plans.

In the middle of Henry's interview, a man in a suit interrupted and dismissed the officer.  He flashed a federal badge, and Henry felt his heart sink even lower.

"Mr. Joyce," the agent said, "I'm Ben Calhoun.  I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigations, and I'm here to inform you that the federal government is taking over this case.  I know that the New Jersey Police have already spoken to you several times and collected your testimony, but I'm hoping you won't mind coming in to talk to me as well."

"Sure, why not?" Henry said drily.  Calhoun smiled.

"I'm sure this has been a rough month for you.  I appreciate you being accommodating." 

Henry shrugged.  What choice did he have?

 

Calhoun drove Henry to a nearby federal office, where he was taken to a private room wired up with a recorder.  Calhoun sat at a desk across from Henry, with a flush of papers spread out in front of him.

"I've read the testimony you gave before, so you don't need to repeat yourself unless you feel you need to."

"Why am I here then," Henry asked, his irritation beginning to trump his caution, "if you don't want to hear me say the same things all over again?"

Calhoun eyed Henry appraisingly, leaning back in his chair.

"You're here, Mr. Joyce, because we've seen that studio, and we know there's something you haven't said yet.  We want to hear it."

"What makes you think I'm hiding something?"

"None of the pieces fit together.  You were adamant about Joey Drew's culpability in multiple homicides, and in the torture of your friend, Samuel Lawrence.  You claim he attacked you as well.  And yet the Joey Drew we found down there was a corpse, hooked up to a strange machine that no longer seems to function, and the purpose of which we haven't the foggiest idea about.  And then there's the bizarre state of the bodies we found, like something of a cheap horror film, or an H.G. Wells novel."

Calhoun leaned forward, his gaze piercing.  "And we're asking you again because of your unique credentials.  You fought in the war.  Signal corps, correct?"

"Yes.  I saw terrible things over there" Henry said, a bit sharply.  He didn't mention the liberated camps that he'd passed through, the emaciated survivors, the piled corpses stuffed in wagons.  When he'd seen what had become of Sammy, starved and tortured into something unrecognizable, those images had risen back to the surface of his mind.  All these years later, and he was still carrying the ghosts of the war on his back.

"You were promoted to sergeant," Calhoun continued, "and awarded a badge of honor for laying down communication wire deep in enemy territory.  You almost single-handedly saved the lives of three of your fellow soldiers from a Nazi raid.  One of those men is my superior now, and he wants to return the favor."

"What?  Who?" Henry asked.

"George Valentine."

"Valiant Valentine?  Really? He works for the FBI now?" Henry asked, floored.  Calhoun chuckled.

"He does, and he thinks that your testimony can be trusted.  So, will you tell us what really happened there?"

Henry was silent for a moment.  "If I did tell you, I don't think you would believe me."

"No matter how ridiculous you think it sounds, Mr. Joyce, I swear to you that I won't hold it against you.  Be truthful with us, and we will do our best to get to the bottom of this."  Henry eyed the man mistrustfully, but then sighed.  He was tired to his bones, and he wanted the poking and prying to stop.  He remembered George as a dependable, loyal man.  They'd saved each other's lives more than once out in the French and German countryside.  He'd trusted the man then, maybe he could still trust him now.

"Alright.  I'll tell you, but I'm going to remind you again that this isn't made-up.  And I still don't understand everything."

"That's quite alright, Mr. Joyce."

Henry began to tell the story then, truthfully, with no omissions.  He watched Calhoun's eyes widen, and his brow deepen as Henry recounted his arrival at the studio, his misguided attempt to start up the machine, and then the nightmare that followed.  His discovery of Sammy and the fates of his other coworkers.  The revelation of what Joey had done to himself and Henry's actions to shut down the machine and end it all.

"I don't know how he did it.  Science and black magic, probably.  I have to admit, I've never put much stock in the spiritual aspect of religion before, but if you told me that the creatures I saw down there were demons, I would believe you."

Calhoun was silent for a long minute, rolling his pen between his fingers.  Eventually, he stopped, and placed it gently on the desk.  "Mr. Joyce, are you familiar with the Thule Society?"

"Thule Society?  Wasn't that… Hitler's mystic mumbo-jumbo division?  Thought they could harness the power of pagan gods or something?"

"Yes.  That's the one.  You see, they weren't entirely unsuccessful.  When we overtook their headquarters, we found terrible things there.  Things that defied all earthly explanation.  So, you see, your story isn't all that unbelievable after all, given what else we know about the strange and unexplainable."

Henry's mouth hung open.  He had a million questions, but shock had frozen all of them in his throat.

"It was sensible of you to omit certain details when you spoke with the police.  There are some things that the public ought not to know about, for the best interest of us all.  This business with your old studio isn't the first nightmare we'll have to cover up."  Calhoun got to his feet, shuffling his papers together into a neat stack.  Henry sat in his chair, paralyzed.

"You believe me?"

"I believe you, Mr. Joyce."

"And the police will leave us alone now, Sammy and I?"

"We've taken the case over, so they won't be bothering you again.  I think we have what we need, but we may contact you again if something comes up."

"Can you do something for me?" Henry asked, heart hammering.

"What do you need?"

"I was denied power of attorney for Sammy by the district court, because we have no familial tie.  I know he's not in the best state right now, and I don't want him to disappear into the system.  He was my friend years ago, and I can't abandon him when he needs my help the most.  But I have no legal ability to help him."

"I'll see what I can do, Mr. Joyce."

"Thank you," Henry said, before Calhoun showed him out.

 

After his meeting with Mr. Calhoun, Henry's life suddenly went back to normal.  The agent delivered on his promise, and within a week he was back in the district court's office, signing the necessary paperwork for control over Sammy's fate.  Relief didn't begin to describe the feeling.  Henry's chest felt lighter than it had in weeks, and his fitful nights began to abate.

He went to the hospital once a week to check on Sammy, heartened to see that he looked even better than before.  He was still thin, still frail, but there was color in his face again, and his emaciated state was slowly filling back out.  He was allowed to speak with the doctors now, who told him that Sammy was showing remarkable signs of recovery.  He no longer slid between times and places.  He was present again, aware.  The hardest part, they told him, was over.  He could recover, given time and patience.  Henry almost wept in the office.  He hadn't realized how uncertain he really was about Sammy's chances.

He knew that it still wouldn't be easy.  Sammy had suffered severe physical and mental trauma.  The doctors had been running tests on him to gauge his mental faculties, and while not perfect, the results were promising.

"We think it's best that we keep him here for the next five weeks, and that after your visit next week, you leave him in our care until his release."

"You don't want me to visit him?" Henry asked, becoming defensive.

"We think it would be best for him, since his impression of you is so tangled up in his traumatic experiences.  One month, that's all.  We think he will be ready for release then, but for that month we think it's best if he cuts all ties with his traumatic memories in order to reorient himself and address them on his own terms.  Does that make sense to you, Mr. Joyce?"

"I… yes, I suppose.  If that's what you think is best," he said reluctantly.  He wasn't keen on leaving Sammy alone for so long, but a month was not that long, in the end, and when it was over, Sammy would be released, and Henry would be able to keep watch over him.

"I'll just need you to sign these forms, Mr. Joyce."

 

A week before Thanksgiving, Henry arrived at the hospital to find Sammy waiting for him in the foyer, a nurse chatting amiably with him.  He said little, but he smiled at her occasionally.

They'd provided him with some real clothes—tan slacks, a button-down shirt, and a moss-green sweater only a size too large.  His hair was still short and thin, but it was coming back the same pale blond that Henry remembered.  He looked good, remarkably so.  In fact, he looked exactly as Henry remembered him from nearly thirty years ago.  If that hadn't been clear while he was lying in that hospital bed, it certainly was now.

Sammy Lawrence was a man out of time.  A man untethered.  But Henry would see that he got a chance to live the life that Joey had taken from him.

"Henry!" Sammy exclaimed, his face lighting up as Henry approached.  "I was starting to worry you wouldn't show up."

"Ah, I'm sorry, I was getting a coat for you," Henry admitted.  "It's gotten pretty cold outside."

He passed a gray wool coat over to Sammy, who put it on.  It was a little wide in the shoulders and fell a little higher up his legs than it was supposed to, but it would keep him warm when the November winds began to cut.

 

Despite their evidentially mutual joy at seeing each other again, the trip to Henry's apartment passed in silence.  Perhaps neither one of them knew what to say or felt comfortable talking about the last few months out in public.  When they arrived at Henry's apartment, Sammy looked up at the brick façade and little white-framed windows, as if trying to determine which one he'd soon be looking out of.  Feeling more than a little anxious, Henry encouraged Sammy to follow him as he climbed the stairs up to his second-story rooms.

"It was a pain in the ass getting up these stairs with a broken leg," Henry said amiably, flashing what he hoped was a reassuring smile in Sammy's direction.  "I still have to be careful with it, but I'm glad to be out of that cast at least."

"Do you want to lean on me?" Sammy asked.  Henry paused, thrown by his response.

"Uhh, yeah.  Sure."

Sammy wrapped his arm around Henry's shoulders, under his left arm, and Henry did the same.  Together, they made their way up the stairs, with Henry leaning on Sammy for support every time he had to brace himself on his left leg.  Eventually, the made it to the landing, and Henry made his way over to the door.

"Number 87C, that's us."  He opened the door and ushered Sammy inside, following behind him.

"It's not much, but I keep the place clean.  There's no pets allowed in the building, so that helps.  I have a few plants, so at least I'm not the only living thing in here."

"You're alone?" Sammy asked.  He frowned, and Henry wondered if he was trying to remember something.

"Yeah.  Ever since… ever since Linda died."

Sammy was quiet, but Henry could almost hear the gears whirring in his head behind those lake-deep eyes.  "I'm sorry," he said eventually.

"It's fine," Henry lied.  It came easy to him now, after all these years.  Her loss was still a jagged hole in his heart, but time had worn the edges down and numbed the ache of it.  "It happened not long after I left the studio."

Unsure of what else to say, Henry said nothing.  Sammy stood in the hall, still in his wool coat and looking very out of place, and Henry remembered why they were there again.

"Come on, I'll take your coat and then show you your room."

"My room?"

"Yeah.  Didn't think I was gonna put you on the couch, did you?"

Henry hung their coats up by the door and removed his shoes.  Sammy did the same, and then followed Henry into the apartment.

"This is where you'll be staying," he told Sammy, showing him the first room off the hall.  There was a large double bed, an antique dresser, and some assorted other furniture packed into the room.  It seemed a little too fine to be a guest room.

"Are you sure?" Sammy asked.  "This looks like your room.  Where will you sleep?"

"Oh, well, I set up another bed in my office.  Honestly, I spend more time in there than in here, so if I had to choose one, it would be the office," Henry admitted.

"I can't take your room," Sammy said.  "You're already doing so much for me…"

Henry adopted a serious look.  He put a hand on Sammy's shoulder, turning the other man's gaze away from the bed and towards him.

"Sammy, yes you can.  This is what I want.  I have everything I need in the other room, and the bed is comfortable, I swear.  This room is for you."

After a moment's hesitation, Sammy nodded, but Henry could tell from the way he avoided Henry's gaze that it still troubled him.

"Are you hungry?" Henry asked.  Sammy nodded again, beginning to feel it as soon as Henry asked.  "Help me put dinner together."

 

An hour later, they both sat down at the table beneath the kitchen window.  Henry had made baked chicken with steamed carrots and potato pancakes.  Sammy had helped to peel the vegetables while Henry did most of everything else.  He didn't really know how to cook, and he couldn't remember if that was because he'd forgotten, or he'd just never learned.

Sammy stared down at the plate of food.  He'd felt numb all day, just taking things in as they happened, as if they were happening to somebody else, far away.  His doctor at the psychiatric hospital had called it disassociation.  But now he could feel himself coming back into his own body, and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.  There was so much to take in, so much to consider and reflect upon and react to, Sammy wasn't sure how to handle it all.

"Are you alright?" Henry asked, halfway through cutting up his chicken.

"I'm not sure," Sammy answered, staring down at the plate, the bright orange of the carrots etching themselves into his mind.  Carefully, he picked up a fork and cut off a section of potato pancake.  When he brought it to his mouth, the taste of it flooded his body and mind like a splash of hot water.  All he'd eaten for the past few months was reconstituted, flavorless hospital food.

"It's… very good…" he whispered.  Henry nodded.

"I don't know if you remember, but one year I invited you over to celebrate Hanukkah with Linda and me.  You raved about the latkes, so I wanted to make something I knew you would like."

"I remember," Sammy said hoarsely.  It had been dark and cold out in the streets of New York City that night, but the Joyce's apartment had been warm and full of light.  Sammy remembered Henry telling stories about his childhood, and Sammy sharing recollections of his own.  It had been a rare pleasure for him just to socialize and be together outside of work.  To think, he might have forgotten that moment entirely if not for this reminder.

Silent and unbidden, tears began to fall from Sammy's eyes.  They dripped down his chin and splashed onto his untouched food.  Startled, Henry leaned forward over the table.

"Sammy?  What's the matter?"  Sammy shook his head, unable to speak.  "It's alright, Sammy.  Whatever's wrong, I'm here to help you through it.  You're going to be okay.  We don't have to eat now if you don't want to."

Sammy shook his head again, struggling to take deep breaths as the tears continued to pour.  Helplessly, Henry reached out and took Sammy's hand, rubbing soothing circles over the back of it.  They sat there like that for some time, as Sammy let all his bottled in emotions pour out and Henry tried quietly to comfort him.

"I think…  I think I'm alright now…" Sammy rasped eventually, when the tears had finally stopped.  He looked up at Henry with red eyes and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.  Henry handed him a napkin, which he used to dry his face.  He took a deep breath and forced a smile.

"Are you sure?" Henry asked.

"Yes.  We should eat before it gets cold."

The food was already cold, but Henry refrained from saying so.  They ate quietly, and Sammy only consumed about half of what was on his plate before he couldn't go on.  He was so thin.  Henry wanted to encourage him to eat more, but he was still so uncertain about the nature of his role in their relationship that he remained silent.  It was only the first meal of many, and all changes take time.

Henry got up and collected the dishes, scraping way the remains and putting the dishes in the sink.  After he'd packed up the leftovers, he squinted at the dirty dishes, and turned to Sammy.

"Why don't we go sit down in the living room?  I can do the dishes later." 

Sammy nodded.  "Alright."

"We should… probably talk."

They'd both been avoiding it so far.  The elephant in the room.  But it wouldn't do either of them any good to avoid it any longer.

"That's probably for the best," Sammy admitted reluctantly, his voice still hoarse from crying.  He followed Henry into the living room, where they sat together a faded tan couch that faced a modest television set.  Sammy stared at it for a moment, and then turned to Henry.

"What's that?"

Henry blinked. "The television?"

"The what?  Is it something I forgot?" Sammy frowned, brow furrowed.

"No, no… it's… something you missed, I suppose.  After the war, they figured out how to transmit film like radio."  Henry gestured at the antenna on top of the TV.  "This thing picks up the signal and displays the image, and the speakers produce the sound.  Sometimes they show films, and sometimes they have shorter programs, or news.  Apparently, the newer ones can pick up color broadcasting, but I've had this one for a few years so it's still just black and white."

"Color!" Sammy exclaimed, amazed.  He stared at the strange, glass-fronted device, and then back at Henry, who looked a little bemused.  It took only moments for his wonder to crumble, replaced with his ever-growing anxiety. 

“I’ve missed so much.”  Sammy tightened his hands on his legs, hunching his shoulders and making himself look even smaller in his too-big sweater.  “How am I ever going to catch up?  I don’t want to be a burden on you, Henry.  You’ve already done so much for me.  Getting me out of that place, paying for my medical expenses, convincing the police I wasn’t responsible for… what happened down there.”

Henry was a little surprised at how much Sammy was aware of the situation, since they hadn't yet spoken about it.

“I’m your friend, Sammy," Henry said gently.  "That’s what friends do.  They help each other.”

“This goes beyond that.  Most people wouldn’t go this far for anyone who wasn’t family.”

“Well,” Henry said carefully, “I know that you don’t have any family left, and I have very little.  And there was a time that I considered you a very close friend.  Earlier, you said you remembered coming over and eating latkes for the first night of Hanukkah in 1935.  Do you remember anything more about that?”

“I… I’m not sure…”  He hung his head, lacing his fingers over the thin fuzz of his scalp.

“Your mother had remarried and was travelling, so you were going to be alone for Christmas.  I wanted to introduce you to my family, so I invited you.  It wasn’t in this apartment, I left that one a long time ago, but Linda and I were there.  So were our sisters, and their husbands and children.  There must have been at least a dozen of us in there, it was pretty crowded.”  Sammy frowned, wracking his brain for anything that could help him.  Anything to make him feel like less broken.

“I remember... an older woman who kept trying to feed me donuts…”

“That was my mother," Henry beamed.  "She was concerned you were too thin.  Do you remember my niece, Hannah?  She roped you into playing dreidel games with her.”

“Yes…” Sammy said slowly as the memories filtered back.  “I remember starting out with quite a few more chocolate coins than I finished with.” 

Henry laughed.  “Yes!  That kid… she knew an easy mark when she saw one.”

Sammy lifted his head to look at Henry.  He was smiling so widely that Sammy could see the little crow’s feet that formed at the corners of his eyes.  It sent a strange little lurch through his heart, and he found his own lips quirking up in a small smile.

“Yeah, skinned me good.  She had a nice smile, didn’t she?  And those green eyes, just like you do.”

“We’ve been told we look a lot alike.  Funny how that happens.  As a child my mother was the spitting image of her own aunt, or so I was told.”

“Is she… still around?”

“Hannah?"

"Yes."

"Not in New York anymore, so I don’t see her that often, but she’s done well for herself.  She’s married and has three kids now.  She and her husband moved out to California after their oldest was born, and now she works as an actress in Hollywood.”

"That's remarkable."

"Yeah, she did well."  Henry's smile softened, and he leaned back into the couch.  There was silence again for a time, until Sammy eventually spoke up.

"So… what happens now?" Sammy asked.  Henry wondered how long he'd been waiting to voice that question.  He could only imagine the uncertainty his friend must be feeling right now.

"Well… I suppose we take things one day at a time.  I don't know how much you remember from when we were in the hospital together, or from your stay in the psychiatric center, so I'm not sure what you know about this… whole situation, really."

"I don't remember much from the hospital," Sammy admitted.  "Bits and pieces.  Mostly, I remember you.  From the psychiatric hospital… I don't remember much from the beginning, but the last few weeks are quite clear."

"Did they help you?"

"Yes… I think so.  At least, I don't feel so much like… I'm in fragments anymore.  I know where I am, I know who I am… at least, what I can remember of who I am… which, honestly, I'm not sure how much about myself I've forgotten.  The doctors told me I should regain some of my memories with time, but others I might never recover.  They said my brain suffered damage, along with most of my organs, but that I should recover enough to live a normal life."

"They told me the same.  I won power of attorney while you were… still not lucid, so I've been able to oversee your medical care and expenses."

"I appreciate it."

Henry nodded.  "Did they… tell you what year it is?"

Sammy stiffened noticeably.  "Yes… but tell me again.  I want to hear it from you.  I think it will… feel more real that way."

Henry licked his lips, pausing as he gauged Sammy's readiness.  "It's 1965, Sammy.  You were gone for 23 years."

Sammy stared at Henry, allowing himself to trace the fern-leaf patterns of Henry's eyes.  It kept him away from the black call at the base of his skull, where the thick ink still clung, ready to drag him back down into that nightmare.

"It doesn't feel like it's been that long," admitted Sammy, "but at the same time… I still feel like this is all a dream, and I never really left the studio.  A part of me still believes that's the only reality there is, and everything that came before, and everything that's happened since is just… a fantasy I've conjured up to make it bearable."  It hurt to make that admission, and it frightened him to be so vulnerable, but Henry had already seen the worst of him, already seen him at his weakest, and still chose to carry him onward.  He didn't understand what kept Henry convinced that he could be made whole again after this.

"I can't imagine what you went through, or what you're still going through," said Henry.  "But I know a little bit about horror, and guilt, and how alone and ashamed it makes you feel.  I want you to know that I'll be here for you, however long it takes, and whatever you need.  We're the only ones left, you and I, and I'm not going to abandon a friend in need."

Sammy wanted to ask when Henry became so eloquent, but he figured that Henry had another twenty years of loss and hardship to serve as his teacher.  He has other questions too, but after his earlier lapse of control his head is throbbing, and he feels exhausted.

 "Thank you, Henry.  I…  I'm tired.  Can we talk more tomorrow?"  Henry nodded, putting a hand on Sammy's shoulder and squeezing gently.

"Of course.  Let's get you to bed."

Henry provided Sammy with some borrowed sleepwear, which was a little too large for him.  He tied the waistband tight, but Henry's pants billowed around his skinny legs.  Sammy stared down at the body that felt like and unlike his and thought about how he would need some new clothing.  He was going to need a lot of things.  He had nothing, after all.

The chasm he had yet to cross stretched in front of him, wide and deep.  Henry had thrown a rope across to him, but a rope was not a bridge.  He would need to start building, plank by plank.  Just visualizing it exhausted him.  Sammy crawled into the bed that also felt too large, knowing that it too, had once been Henry's, and forced himself not to dwell on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will get dark again next chapter, so heed the tags. As always, comments make me happy and motivate me to work harder! Thank you for reading!


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